You, the man I love only entered once your brother had slipped away. To an unknowing world you were the first born into a family shaped harsh by landscape and time. You were 14 and steeped in embarrassment and freckles by the time the last boy arrived.
In that small city, you made poems out of numbers and equations with words and walked then ran. Towards what you did not know.
Your father died slowly, so you took your best friend to the altar, quickly. And bought a house, and travelled and read of love that was not yours. Of love that was not yours.
Then she, exotic, creole, turned your head and had you loving her and loving her as she tried to love-escape you and the three living souls you-her brought to the world. Soon your Bertha Mason, and yet she left you the one brittle and in chains.
Until, released, you found my shy words lying unlooked at and loved them back to me. And loved my words back to me.