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shadow,
    that too-large one cresting

    just now, too soon for you
    to get inside the curl:

    the one place in the ocean
    where it’s safe. And safe

    only for a half-breath
    (a fish’s sip with
    hooked lip),

    only for that one blink
    of an eye already shut (tiptoe

    to the foreshadow) against
    the headlong wall of salt water.

To My Twenty-Three-Year-Old Self

    The woman you think
    Is the love of your life

    Is only a way to get
    To New York City.

    I probably shouldn’t
    Say that until she leaves

    You. Because you will
    Hate me if I say it now.

    You “love” “her” so
    Much. You are lavishing

    A lifetime of unexpressed love
    On this poor expressionless

    Child. She can barely feel.
    And you, you narcissist,

    You can only feel yourself.
    If you really loved her,

    You would try to help her.
    But in the end, I’m glad

    You spent your energies
    Writing love poems and

    Trying to transform your love
    Into art. It worked out

    For you. FSG will buy it
    Even though it’s juvenile.

    You’d believe that before
    You’d believe she’ll leave you.

    In six weeks. Without a trace.
    Saying:
You don’t know who

    You are. And besides you’re not
    Butch enough for me.

    As if you wouldn’t make yourself
    Into
anything
for her.

    Had she only said she wanted it.
    Luckily for you, she didn’t.

To My Twenty-Four-Year-Old Self

    You wouldn’t know me,
    If I came to you in a dream.

    You’d be sleeping
    It off, you’d be naked

    And cute, but you think
    You’re a kind of monster

    And maybe you are,
    Just not an ugly one.

    That whole business
    Will come later.

    You’d pass me on the street
    As well, a “normal,”

    Someone who traded
    In her essentials for

    A look of haunted
    Responsibility.

    Someone who was maybe
    Once a girl you’d know.

    I would want to tell
    You that romance

    Was a kind of civilization
    That fell. I cannot

    Explain the complex
    Strategies in that bitter

    Defeat, not that I
    Fathom it, except to say

    That we are all haunted.
    You too, in your wild love

    And fear. You are a monster.
    I am not a dream.

To My Twenty-Five-Year-Old Self

    Billy Collins, have you any
    Idea how important

    You were to my twenty-five-year-
    Old self? You weren’t

    Poet laureate yet, you
    Were just a teacher I had

    In Ireland. You were
    Expansive and you

    Believed in me.
    I felt like a real poet

    With you for the first
    Time even though we

    Argued about feminism
    And things that mattered.

    I was just at that cusp
    Of being someone who wanted

    So desperately to write,
    Tipping over into becoming a writer.

    I was fighting it. I didn’t know
    How to be except angry.

    I was frightened. What if I
    Could be good? What if

    I would never be good?
    Would your attention

    Be all I’d ever really have
    Of poetry? How could I know?

    And so I was angry at you.
    And between the lesbian

    Love I’d left in New York
    Who, I’m grateful, convinced

    Me to buy contact lenses
    So I could see the green

    Hills, and the British physicist
    I’d end up in bed with

    Before I’d left Ireland,
    There was something pure

    And aboveboard, not teacherly
    But generous, and lovely

    And incomplete and no
    One thing. I won’t forget it:

    The way you laughed
    At some mean joke, at some

    Ugly truth, into the wind
    So it blew back into our happy,

    Stupid faces on a ferry made me understand,
    This is love the way poets know it.

To My Thirty-Eight-Year-Old Self

    Calvin will be fine,
    I want to say

    To this woman who
    Is one year older than me.

    To tell her: You may still
    Not be able to tell,

    But he will catch up,
    And fit into the category

    Of “normal” and we’ll
    Both laugh at ourselves,

    Who never imagined
    Normal as a good thing

    For anybody, much less
    A beautiful, innocent

    Baby. Who has a real
    Chance at being magnificent.

    She’ll say what
    Did we know…we were

    So worried. Still