In dozens of emails he uses the correct form
of you’re, and that’s when I know
I could love him. A man’s kiss may linger on the small
of my back for hours, but
a ticker tape of badly conjugated
verbs can really mar the glow.
Perhaps I am, semantically speaking,
difficult to make happy. I’ll withhold
my tongue, my nipples,
if a man can’t sense where to place his
commas. Because I believe my body
and my grammar are indivisible. If a lover can’t use
an apostrophe, how can I trust him with
my collarbone? To understand
between rave and raze?
Photo by Alex Hiller on Unsplash