I do not understand what she sees
in him, his bumps and crevices
on full display, unapologetically ugly,
expecting to be loved exactly the way

he is— knobby feet in flip-flops,
clothing loose, draping over
the largest parts of him. He swirls
wine in his glass and tells me

my poem should be in couplets,
not tercets. He offers no compliments
first, no apologies, and I’m not
offended so much as jealous.

I write his comments in my notepad,
quiet in my disagreement, swallowing
my commentary about how men
don’t compromise, my fear that

my empathy and masculinity will
always be at odds, but he catches
my eye, says hey, you can disagree
if you want. I shouldn’t need

his permission, but I take it.
He listens before he speaks,
our comments falling into rhythm
like the punching of a chess clock,

a banter rooted in poetry,
an unapology, an undoing
of my silence. He’s still wrong
about the tercets, but I see

for a moment what my friend
does, the quick bounce of his wit,
and I wonder if anyone will ever
love me like that.