We all want to know.

In fifth grade we hung around after school to play Sumo. We’d stuff the teth­erball under a sweat­shirt and charge ‘til the rope snatched us back. Cuffed by the invis­i­ble clothes­line. Invis­i­ble is soft, I remem­ber think­ing, while my stom­ach scaled my ribs.

Now that it’s allowed, my love’s going every which way. And each way whole, like a teth­erball sail­ing hard and light. I feel that small and hilar­i­ous, now. I want knock you over with my belly, painfully and in short range. But of course you’re all a step too far and I’m just wrap­ping myself to a pole.

There are four of you. I had to count. There is one other, pos­si­bly, and then all of you who already know it any­way. I am giv­ing it bound­lessly. Not reck­lessly, but if you’d let me. It’s why I keep cof­fee, wine and choco­late on my nightstand.

I feel expen­sive, fat with unan­swered love. My soli­tude high-ceilinged and fur­nished. I take deli­cious self-portraits, now, like a saint. Not like the years in cloth and pen.

And what’s courage? I would’ve said devo­tion, and now I sup­pose I would, too. It’s in me still, charg­ing it’s slack.