When your boyfriend calls himself a Marxist misfit
don’t say it’s cute; Marxist misfits loathe being cute.
When he reenacts falling forward to the floor and
catching himself in a springy push-up to look for
something that rolled under the work fridge, say he’s
so strong, yet nimble; don’t ask how dirty the floor.
When he swings his arms back and forth, knees bent,
center of gravity steady, you should feel free to ask
Have you thought about a career as a stunt double?
but accept his truth—a sober It’s too late for me,
still swinging—even though he’s clearly conjuring
a character who then crouches, jumps up, half-back-
flips, and hangs, sticky sneaker soles on the ceiling.
You can ask permission to take a video, but he’ll say
bats can’t be detected by phone cameras, just like
their vampire kin in mirrors. Instead, try employing
echolocation to see if he remembers the old days—
when he was just a man who insisted photographs
snatch souls, then shyly turned his face away—and
listen for the bounceback: a snore, then tiny wheeze.