If he’s good

he just has to choose

the right time

for the right words.

 

If he’s quick,

he’ll nip your first ‘no’

in the bud,

then keep pruning,

those loppers

snick-snicking

You don’t know

how to love.

 

If he’s good,

just a fancy dinner

you can’t afford,

the care of his daughter,

the disease he gives

so he can reassure,

Most men would leave you

but I never will.

 

Just a hassle if you call

an old friend on a whim,

a midnight blowup before

your job interview.

 

If he’s smart,

he won’t need a fist

to demonstrate

momentum, load,

the least force it takes

to turn something shatterproof

into a web of shards.

 

If he’s really good,

the words don’t even

have to be mean.

He can make them

do it with praise.

The turncoats! They say

how your looks and brains

intimidate. You scare them off,

the men your age.

 

The words even admire

his own restraint, like just now,

when he didn’t throw

the remote at your face.

 

It’s taken constant exercise

of something like genius

to get this good.

To know the value

of patience, consistency,

that he doesn’t have

to slam your head

against the wall,

 

only to keep you

awake, to wake you

from shallow sleep

with what he makes

his tongue say and do.

 

To never tire, never

give in. To wear you

so thin you forgo

reason, then logic,

then the thoughts

that think the self

you knew, and become

your own obedience

to the smallest signal,

gesture, a slogan or two.

No one will ever love you

the way I do.