You, in Indiana

You're understudying Prince Charming

in the winter opera, tenor voice

telling me how you always imagined

sharing the stage with the woman you love,

and I—tone deaf, terrified of crowds—am no

Cinderella, throwing down her broom to waltz

with you. Instead, I drive

to Anderson to sit beside you

on the piano bench as you play

the song you wrote for me

using the poem I wrote for Virginia Woolf,

the one where she's walking to the river

and I try to save her. Later I kiss your back

as you rest between my knees like a cello.

You tell me, There's no such thing as a mistake

with you, and I don't correct you, because I want it

to be true, this moment of grace,

this invitation to dance even if

I'm covered in ashes, even if I'm

knee-deep in the river, even if I can't

sing to save my life.