…and in October of 2002 when I wrote it, I can assure you that this man did not exist (erehem, in this form).
So why is this not-so-great snippet worth a mention?
Well, from at least 1998-2000 (the MFA years) I was mostly strictly and defiantly autobiographical in my writing.
My thesis advisor (bless the man for his patience) must have been tired of my ancient argument, “But wouldn’t that make it a lie?!” This after he told me a poem I wanted to include in my thesis would be better with 3 sisters instead of 4.
I’m not sure what poetic device I was effing up with my 4 real sisters instead of the 3 that would’ve turned my eff up into palatable poetry. (All 4 of my sisters, as I recall, ended up in a moderately palatable piece).
Over time, I came to understand what he was suggesting. I was giving precedence to aspects that didn’t deserve it; at least didn’t serve my purposes. So writing this was representative of my, at the time, forays into objective narratives; a plot point on the narrative of my writerly life.
one night, you wrapped your hands around each of my ankles,
pulled me to my back until i was beneath you in the bed
and stared into my eyes until yours were tired.
we slept like we knew each other, breathed heavily
and curled into the pillows, mouths relaxed in the shape of a whisper,
dreams on our lips tickling each other–your neck; my forehead.
i have never been able to love a man like that,
never been able to slumber in his arms
without imagining the scent of your sleep,
the puffy tenderness of the moment under your eyes.