Paul Hostovsky

Love the Mistake

You are not the only mistake I have ever loved.

There have been others.

Just the other day in fact

when John kissed Billy goodbye—

his older brother Billy, who's retarded—

saying first, I love you, then kissing him

once on the mouth, so that Billy

stood up in the kitchen, rocking a little stiffly,

so that John reached up and fixed his collar—I saw

how all this time I have been mistaken

about John,

the hard, the vulgar

ex-cop, ex-Navy,

ironworker from the Bronx

who likes to say vehicle instead of car,

who likes to say fuck, who likes to hate

the enemy. And I loved

being wrong--I loved that I was wrong

about John,

who isn't empty of love after all.

And I take his head now

from the square buzz-cut on top

down to the gash of the mouth,

and all the broken grammar of his face—

I take his head and I cradle it, saying: There.

There. Saying: Now. Now.