French Novel by Richie Hofmann

French Novel

You were my second lover.

You had dark eyes and hair,

like a painting of a man.

We lay on our stomachs reading books in your bed.

I e-mailed my professor. I will be absent

from French Novel due to sickness. You put on

some piano music. Even though

it was winter, we had to keep

the window open day and night, the room was so hot, the air so dry

it made our noses bleed.

With boots we trekked through slush for a bottle of red wine

we weren’t allowed to buy, our shirts unbuttoned

under our winter coats.

The French language distinguishes

between the second

of two and the second

of many. Of course

we’d have other lovers. Snow fell in our hair.

You were my second lover.

Another way of saying this:

you were the other,

not another.