Fool’s GOld

darlene scott

He has his arm around your neck

in a chokehold of endearment.

You hold his forearm in both hands

like a prized fish, squint at the flash.

He will add you to his collection.

You gild him in yours. Walk out

of his release like you want to.

He is a fast ball you try to catch.

Stretch for it, feet off the ground,

shirt creeping over your navel.

He slams into you. You’ve been felled

by lesser men. Easy stuff: good teeth,

how they speak your name. He draws

it in watercolor. Is The List plus. Sun

in your eyes; all you’re sure of is the heat.

And there is Her. Not but. And.

Lip gloss, hips, plus crew’ed up.

As much as any girl needs at 19.

She gets the stories. You get him

clothed, unfiltered, sober and safe

the way your mother likes him.

Take every one of his phone calls

abide space between them; endure

a throb you sit to smother. Take his

naps in your lap, moon chasing,

ginger tea, a baseball cap that smells

like sweat and amber; gilt edges of him.