Semi-Crown of Sort-of-Sonnets for Sasha

I

I met a girl named Sasha yesterday.

She asked me how her blue-gray eyes appeared

when she stared through me to the wall beyond.

“The mirror doesn’t show me how they look,”

she said. I knew, because I too had tried

to see my eyes unfocused in the glass.

“I know,” I told her, wondering, because

who knew another person thought of eyes?

Of retinas and focus length, and how

observers classify one’s crooked gaze?

“I like you.” That’s what Sasha said. “I like

you too,” I said, and leaned into her arms.

II

“My arms are in the way,” said Sasha when

we tried to lie together in my sleep-

ing bag. “I know,” I said. “Are people not

such funny shapes?“ “But what shape would you have

them be?” she wondered. “Hexagons would fit

together better.” “True,” she said. “Now tell

me, can you have a triangle with three

right angles on a sphere?” “I think so, but

let’s check,” I offered. “If we take two per-

pendicular meridians, let’s see…”

So we investigated that togeth-

er lying tangled in my sleeping bag.

III

I’ve done it in my orange sleeping bag

before. You know. I’ve touched myself. It’s hot

in there, but if I’m there it means I’m vis-

iting and someone’s in the room—or will

be soon. Like once in Boston when my friend—

my host—had gone to get us food. I lay

there, finishing my book, and then—I whiled

away the waiting. She came back a bit

too early. So, at times like those I stay

and sweat and wonder if the moisture pen-

etrates the nylon and the down. The mois-

ture—I mean sweat but also—well, enough

of that. It’s nice, of course, but sometimes, with

the soaking heat, I can’t enjoy the rest.

IV

Soon after meeting Sasha, I went home

to rest. I lay down on my bed and let

my body open. Soon I found my hand

discovering my body. I just breathed

and listened—did not force the journey. With-

out warning words appeared: That pirate has

a scalene eye-patch. What a shame, he’s lost

a leg and won’t be given compensa-

tion. I was wholly—holy—with my bo-

dy at the moment of completion—at

a new—a sideways tingle, something that

I’d never felt before. The tingle was-

n’t neatly linked with Sasha—yet I could-

n’t keep from thinking—this. I’ve found it. Her.

V

I found her Facebook listing. I reques-

ted friendship. Waited. Got it. Looked. The sus-

pense didn’t end, because she didn’t list

her sexual druthers on her profile. So

I marked her Wall. “My ear was clogged in class

today and so I tried that thing—massaged

my little toe. It didn’t work. Which is

to say, I miss you. Write me if you want

to talk. I’ve been to Argentina. Right?

You said you want to go?” Then silence. For

a week. Or two. It felt like longer. I

felt strange, and shy, and shamed. Decided not

to worry. It was over. Then, surprise.

An email in my inbox. Sasha N.

VI

An email. Fear. I read it breathlessly.

She said, “I want to hear about your toe

and Argentina, but I wonder if

you’re saying something else. In theory I

support the possibility that we

might share a certain understanding. Yet—

I wonder—I don’t know. What does it mean,

this “more than friendship”? Why can’t friends be close

without this extra burden? Yet I see

your point. It could be healthy, could be wel-

come. Maybe it’s OK if we don’t un-

derstand right now. What do you think? Today

I saw a crocus. Sasha.” Aaaah. And yet

somehow it makes me like her even more.

VII

I like it that she asked me to define

the thing I want. Because it’s true—I don’t

know what this “more than friendship” is. Because—

I don’t just want to————— since that’s a thing

that I can do alone. I want to be

with her, for her to be with me, and how

and when she’s ready and I’m ready. I

see too—because that time it felt so good

inside my body—that same thing. I lis-

tened, I breathed in the silences, I did

not force. I waited. Moved, but only at

my body’s signal. It’s the same—the way

I want to be together with my bo-

dy and with Sasha. Centered. Mutual.