When the time comes,
	Will we want to take off our masks? Poet Rachel Hadas

I’m not ready to remove mine. 
I like that you have to work hard

to understand my tone, read my eyes, 
wonder if we should hug,

question if our hands should touch, 
continue along the path of not-quite-knowing

which side of the wall we stand,
or whether we will ever join forces.  

When the veil lifts and we’re all the same,
I won’t be able to discern how strong

you were during the immoral reign
of a maskless face peering out of Pandora’s box.

It makes me believe maybe I don’t need anyone 
to make me mindful and mouthless.

These days, I still dream you wearing a disguise,
dark eyes squinting, air-kissing my cheeks.
                        

I left behind my life as a teacher,
(can barely teach myself anymore)

but watching you walk your dog
and cat in tandem at 6 am

in your pajama shorts is an advanced lesson
in foreign verse. One of inspiration,

spontaneity, form, and inflection.
I imagine you reading Shelley,

wonder how you might read the line:
“soul meets soul on lovers’ lips”. 

When you pass by me close,
cut through the vulnerable morning,

you share the click of your Russian tongue
as you recite loudly on speaker phone. 

It’s as if I’m sitting in the back 
of a classroom, and you are roaming

between the rows, the teacher 
I can’t take my eyes off. 

Your laughter is your lesson,
a gift not many offer up lately.

Metered slap of your sandals 
match my old heart.

It’s your attempt to teach me simple grammar,
but baby, I ain’t nothin’ like Shelley.