I made a Valentine card for you
out of construction paper and glitter.
I cut out an imperfectly symmetrical heart,
with an equally imperfect duplicate
cut in the center,
and super-glued it to the inside
over a wallet sized photo of you.
I composed an unknown poem for the occasion
on the facing page,
written in a sloppy calligraphy—
seven quatrains of slant rhyme
expounding on things known
and unknown only to me.
I signed it using my nickname,
as neatly as I could,
because I wanted you
to be able to read it.
You took it as a come on
and took me
in more ways than I
When you were done,
you rolled out of bed,
bare feet on the cold floor,
and walked out with a knowing backward glance.
You called from the kitchen and
asked if I wanted anything.
Not once did you
mention the metaphor
the card represented.
I may be sharing a well-protected man-secret here, but sex is not the most important thing to a man. It’s true. Look how casually and wrecklessly we deal with sex–inappropriate comments and conversations, premarital and multiple relationships, pornography–we cheapen it. Things that we hold in high regard, things that we treasure, we protect, we share sparingly. For a man that is his heart.
Think about it. As men, we are often called out because we keep to ourselves, we don’t share our emotions, our dreams, our innermost being. It’s because the giving of these is more intimate to us than the sharing of our bodies. And the denial or misunderstanding of this giving, this opening up to another individual is more devasting than being rejected sexually.
Copyright © 2015 Scott Daniel Massey