Theirs was a crusade of rescue,
and I wore the cape.
They lifted their hands
up to me in trust, in a stranded sort of helplessness,
so I smiled and let them in.
They were the lanky, awkward, crutches-laden
new girl in high school
who became blind-sighted thanks to the popular ones.
They were the silent, brown-eyed boy across the street
who, at age seven, summit’d snow
drift mountains in Gore-Tex bundlings, and then moved across the country.
They were the best girl friend around the corner
who learned from another mother
what it meant to brush out ratty hair knots before bedtime.
They were the boy from another country
who fell in love with the American girl, on a semester studying abroad,
just weeks before she had to return home.
They were the cute new hire with L.L. Bean sensibility
who tried on the feel of fake nails and warm Coronas in a backseat,
and then knew how ugly it was to fit in.
They are the first boyfriend with student loans,
a hard labor day job, and life still at home,
who holds onto her (desperately), his light in the darkness of reality.
I gave them a hand,
drawing strength to once again billow my cape.
But it grew quite tattered, instead,
from their weighty pulls.
I was left often wondering
what it meant to need a shoulder and therefore love …
or, just to love,
and acknowledge a beautiful shoulder at your side.
