It’s hard not to read someone like, say, Sharon Olds,
and see that writers have
clearly different experiences.
I write poems about loving women, missing women,
and Sharon Olds writes about the nakedness of bodies
and the way men are distant.
I can’t even imagine us meeting, and making love.
Afterwards, Sharon Olds would come into the bathroom
and find me on my back in the shower,
and for all the poet between us,
for all our mountains of words,
she’d say What are you doing?
and I’d go Huhhh?
I see her poem now:
“Rubble of soft angles and soggy muscle,
like he wants to go down the drain with the water.
I ask him what he’s doing
and he barely gives an answer.”
In my poem,
I write that I like the way
warm water feels on my chest,
it feels good,