Things About the David Boy

he has a big nose, but he makes it work.

I've known him for four weeks, so I don't know what colour his eyes are

but I understand enough about his heart

to know that they, his eyes, are probably universes of everything

I'm afraid of him even though I shouldn't be

and can't look away from.

I taught him how to dance,

not because I wanted him to learn how to dance,

but because I knew it would give me an excuse

to touch his back or his arm or something,

to see what he feels like under that t-shirt.

his arms are big, muscular,

and I'd be lying if I said I haven't wondered

a time or two

what it's like to be held by them.

he plays hockey,

which means he can probably beat the breath out of someone

if he needs to,

protect me from Goliaths at the mall

with just his fists.

but the thing is...

oh, the thing is...

you see, he has not noticed any

of the things that I have done to get his attention.

he's been too pre-occupied with talking to the girl

whose dad left last week,

or the kid who goes to school day after day after day

wondering if someone is going to be interested enough

to ask him about the logo on his t-shirt,

so he can explain everything he loves about Dr. Who.

his hockey arms and universe eyes are grey gravel

that were doing just fine on their own,

except now a cornerstone of personality,

of heart and soul,

has covered them up.

a cornerstone made of cinderblocks,

stacked together in a mosaic of all the ways

you can say I love you

without opening your mouth,

without dreaming of what it's like to kiss someone,

or what they look like in a bathing suit.

Goliath is not someone who hits on me while we're shopping,

Goliath is the fact that someone's mother has breast cancer,

that the new girl is only eighteen

but she's already been married for a year

and now they're getting a divorce;

Goliath is the jeer from six months ago

that still rings in the ears of a 12-year-old boy

when he goes to bed at night

— thank God this David cares nothing about the new shirt I'm wearing

that makes me look skinnier than I am.

thank God for humility that hits like a bullet

when you realize that love is not something you feel for the David boy.

thank God for the David boy who showed me that

love is not naming a new pet after someone you think is attractive

the week after you meet them,

that it is not laughing at their jokes,

or wanting them to think you're interesting

by just casually working the fact that you have epilepsy

into the conversation.

love is walking up to the kid who has never met his father,

and wonders what he did to drive him away,

only to remind him that because he goes to his sister's recitals

and to prom with the girl who was rejected nine times

and pays for the outcast kid's lunch when he's a dollar short

means he is already ten times the man his so-called dad was

and he's only 15-years-old.

love is seeing that the girl in the corner is trying not to cry,

trying to protect the secret

that she is a leaf on a tree

and there's a tornado a quarter mile away,

love is sitting next to her without saying a single word,

and letting her know with your beautiful soul

that your shoulder is a car with tinted windows,

she doesn't have to be afraid to cry.

thank God that this David boy will never drop his slingshot

in the name of noticing how smooth my tanned my legs are.

he has a big nose, but he makes it work.

I've known him for four weeks, so I don't know what colour his eyes are

but I understand enough about his heart

to know that his heart does not care for my clear skin

or cute hair, or new dress.

his heart is a museum of all the pieces of himself

he's given away to fill the chasms in others.

his heart is the bridge from lonely to whole,

his heart climbs the ladder of a diving board overlooking a black quarry,

saying to the orphan shuttering away from the edge,

"give me your hand and we'll jump together."

his heart does not make his eyes look like the universe;

his heart makes him look like the fragrant grass

forming the path to the home that says,

"prodigal, we've missed you. welcome back. have a seat."