Looking back, a Communist rally had fewer red flags –

my gaydar, utterly underdeveloped, did not register

a single echo on its screen. Three decades later, an

easy Google search, and everything all made sense.

Like when I told him I loved him and he said,

Thank you, as if I held open a door or passed him

a creamer of milk. Or how I misconstrued his patience

and manners for gallantry. So helpless in his grasp

of Latin, never delighting in the complex folds and arches;

his timid and tentative tongue treating my clit like

an impossible all day sucker when I wanted to be

devoured to my sweetest center. If I had offered him

another dark place in my body, what then?

I mourn our suffered years and the countless orgasms

left unspent by the best bodies of our lives.

I imagine his discovery and shock trailed by relief then dread –

having to come out to his large Polish-Italian family, saddled

with Old World machismo. Somehow, I should have known.

Maybe when straight porn didn’t fire him tumescent or when

we drove out of town for a romantic weekend only to return

hours later as bile replaced butterflies. I should have run

for the fucking hills. But I stayed.

Because he was kind and sweet. Because we didn’t know better.

Now when I see his life on social media, I take notice

of two things: his face has not aged a minute, and my absurd

pleasure in seeing his longtime partner’s black hair and brown eyes

dark as mine.