I remember the first utterance. Handing back
your favorite book,
Lafcadio: The Lion Who Shot Back, I said — you know,
this is basically Invisible Man.
You shrugged — I don’t know what that is,
and stared
at me wide-eyed, wolf-eared and waited,
ready. It was that moment,
looking up at your face
from my spot criss-cross applesauce
on your bedroom floor,
when I said —
It’s my favorite book
but meant —
I love you. Of course,
like with many things between us,
something was lost
in the translation.