Sylvie Deflection
He laughs it off. Past the Taco Bell
and the two Shell stations and the rest
of the strip mall nonsense, following
the signs downtown. Probably
there’s a boardwalk. At least
there’ll be sand. Someplace
where I can walk with my sandals
in my hands so that I can’t
physically beat myself up
for the way I just shot Knox down. But
I don’t know how else I could’ve responded
to what he said. Knox had nothing and then lost that too
and here he is, bright and thoughtful, endlessly patient, funny
and kind. Why would a boy like this, good
down to his bones, ever want someone
like me? Why would I assume he’s talking
about taking me on a date? So we’re swimming,
huh, he says when I park at the far end
of the beach lot, Winslow front-leg
bouncing already and I must be
bright red. Get my striped one piece
out and a big white button-down
to cover myself up more because
would a bikini be flirting? If his eyes
catch mine, will they give away
the thing I really want to say—all my Fridays
are free for the foreseeable future
for you—words that might get me
something I don’t deserve, and while Knox
waits outside the van, I change my clothes
and tie up my hair and put sunscreen everywhere
I can reach, protecting myself as best I can
from the thing that’s beating down on me.