Men Who Should Have Loved Me

By Rae Rose

My history professor - in your adorable
black shirts and that strange click
of your jaw that made you so thirsty.
You said, "A one world Utopia sounds genocidal"
and I almost dropped my pen.
You blushed when you cursed, called my writing a joy
and snuck looks down my cleavage in your office.
Room Q 19, fourth floor.
Your wife grows peppers and keeps chickens.
She asks you to go to the store when you're out of plums.

Saxophone player - all dimple,
all clever smile.
You loved my hair short and curly, drank with me at the bar
and your wife never came to a show,
well, once.
Once she did. In tennis shoes with the laces
untied and huge white tube socks
and I called her "Socks" to feel better about myself,
but it didn't work. You told me about your quiet Halloween,
cuddling and handing candy out to kids
and I can't imagine her like that,
but I'm wrong. I hate that memory. Yours.

Kevin Beck in 1st - 8th grade.
We were the funny redheads.
The first note you wrote to me as an adult
was from jail. You shot a cop.
I stared at the return address. You said you missed me.
Everything was misspelled. There wasn't any punctuation.
I wrote back. You didn't.


The man who called me "Honey." Just that sound! Honey.
You bought me dresses and nachos.
I didn't love you either.
You call me now, back from France
and a mental break down. Your therapist says hi.

Oh Freddie, you idiot.


Published in The Raleigh Review, October 2010