Ibid.

She turned all things to
loveliness. Or so I knew
about her when we met
beneath that creaky stair-
case, in the self-satisfied
presence of Shelley. It was
the cliche of love at first
sight. In a mockery to social
acceptability, we rushed
headlong from coquettish
infatuation to passionate
love. Holding hands leading
to other things. To mouths
tracing skin stretching
infinity; and limbs
in a desirous struggle,
entangling themselves
with the fuzzy fabric of
the universe that watched
us from its circumference.
We revelled in our love-
making; our bodies would grow
taut in the act of creation.
I saw her everywhere,
floating in the mist
camouflaging ghosts or
in the scaly mirrors of fish
laid out shining as I looked
at myself a million ways.
She was the mirror which
made beautiful the distorted.
Expressed my world in its
eternal, undeniable truth.
My love overflowed to such
an irrational degree that I
learned, in a political faux
pas, the racial language in
which she spoke. I cherished
her message of course, but
for a moment in time, I also
began to cherish her language.
So much so that her language
became her existence. I did
not know it then but my
discrimination was purloining
a part of me. Spivak wouldn't
have ever agreed.

My first love fled the day
I let social acceptability
attire me; don me with its
obligations. I was not supposed
to be in love with her, I
found. She did not fulfil
the criteria through which
men became men. Or society
moved forward. We needed not
the truth. But the grit and
expertise of occupations.
I lost her the day I gave
in to the prejudice of
knowing what life
should be like.