To My Imaginary Lover

When I pictured my tall Asian lover,
I imagined Li-Young Lee or my former boyfriend

from high school, Kwan Chang.
Little did I know that it would be

Mary Kim. The affair is consummated
on my part, at local poetry events

when I sit with my wimpy shoulders
listening to her speak. When she

says, "heft," I can now
test everything for this value. I hold

up a spot of water on my finger
and compare it to rain drops on a shaven latte-

colored head. I dive into a humid
day and recall swimming laps and

the movement of water is like a hand on
my back. But that is not heft

until I hear her say it and can feel its weight.
She tells me to sing and I

scour lyrics for good poetry
which I memorize in the car

and mutter through my gray-speckled
workday. One line doesn't make you a poet and all

humans can feel symphonies of
words, paint, whatever. Being a writer's not even

in the talent. It's in usage and attention. So
I bow to Mary Kim, for I know she is always

writing. Her son's diapers have
black ink soaking into them.

He's too young to read, but it
must affect him like music in

the neighbor's house, quiet sex in the next room,
or Picasso flash cards under the mattress. When she says,

"fan," I search
for a tree that produces the brown, thumb-sized,

fan-shaped leaves which stick to damp sidewalks like
licked paper. When she says, "book," I am

three inches tall
heaving a white page over and it blows

my hair back. Perhaps it's a strength
I am missing. Even though I have carried small children

around for years -- even though I have swum 2058.6 miles in pools
and oceans, when she catches my arm up in hers,

it just might break.

Copyright Louise Robertson