I want him to admit to something, I don’t know what. His torso is sincere as a sonnet. His shoulder which I kiss. His prophet’s mouth, the brave corners of his eyes. His first name is foppish as an aristocrat; his second name like a foreign word for weapon; his last name the spindly architecture of an old woman’s handwriting. If he asked me to tell him a story, I would begin that story, A king had a wife whom he loved beyond reason… I speak then sleep for weeks. He clears his throat, and the sound is as rich with meaning as a human hand. I become aware of all my spaces. The bag of my womb, my blood vessels, my pores and my mouth, the shell of my ear, yes all those other spaces too, the ones you thought of when I said, when you read, I become aware of all my spaces. His smile like the motion of a girl’s head bending to drink from a spring. The most beautiful sound his voice makes is sss. It’s lazy, closer to the shh of the ocean or of a badger in high grass. I live to hear him say “breast” or “excess.” I wrote a tanka about him before he knew my name. I got lost in the line of his jaw and I sang, He is the forest, she is the factory. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’ve begun to tell this old joke to everyone I know. What happens when you play a country song backwards? You get your wife back, you get your car back, you get your dog back…I’ve never found this funny. But if I’m not saying something banal, I’m afraid my mouth will open to the closed throat of the world, I’m afraid I’ll shout about how I could live my whole life blind with his hands on my back, on my back, on my back. I want to cook him New Age Soup. I don’t know what that means. I made that up. He is neither theoretical nor theatrical, and that’s okay with me. He likes shrubs and the suburbs, and that’s okay with me. He raps. What happens when you play rap backwards? I wrote a poem called “Since I Fell in Love with the Man From My Tanka I Can Do Nothing But Write Bad Poetry.” The desire comes from somewhere before—and before—and before. I trace a shape on his shoulder. It’s a symbol, I don’t know for what. A flame. A tear. A leaf. We are curled as ferns. On my way to the store (which smells of metal), I sing along to the stupid songs on the radio with a stupid smile on my face. The lyrics are appalling. I don’t care. I swallow it all. The latest hit goes: get in your Civic at nightfall and meet me at the strip mall. Or something. I have only to think of his mouth and a slender green snake named Stella shimmies through my chest cavity. The Atlantic takes flight with Florida between her thighs. I sleep then speak for weeks. It’s too much. Painful and pleasing as sand inside me. My throat closes like there was curry powder in the custard. I think on the crude realities of sex and other things I know nothing about. I pretend to be a virgin. I am, in fact, a virgin. It’s priceless. I’ll write a poem about it. He smiles. His eyes light up like the sun rising on Mars. Too easy to be an unbeliever. I’m set to kill the guilt God gave me. I’m ablaze with anger but for no reason. I’m ready to shed my shame! I feel sexy as a traitor. His intake of breath. The night takes flight with me between its thighs. My physical spaces convulse just once. Then again. My physical spaces yearning toward Physical Space.