Lara leans in and whispers,
“true love’s not carriages and cozy cottages.
Snow comes with cold. At first, the silver land-
scape’s magical. Then, you must wrap
yourself in furs. Romance starts
like a revolution but, in the end, it’s war.
The train leaves smoke trails and you see
your breath comes in clouds, alone.”
Dear Lara, let me tell you, I’ve lived
in your Russia. Waiting for the good doctor
to appear. A nest with one man under
the comforter. No comfort if no twin soul is there.
I want to say, fiction’s not your friend.
Listen: your perfect match dies
of a heart attack. The lesson is to stop
looking for lovers out every streetcar window.
But here, I ask Ousmane, my Uber driver,
how he got to Ohio from Senegal.
He shows me a photo of his wife of 30 years.
“She’s Khady,” he sings. “She makes me
crazy, but that’s the thing. She wants,” he shrugs,
“we’re here.” He points at his phone emphatically.
I lean in and hear myself say, “You stayed
that many years. She’s family.” At ride’s end,
I open the door, look up at my home.