“And Mathias. She’ll never get out from under his shadow. Even now when he’s long gone.”

“Who was Mathias?” I asked. Oscar gave me a look that was half pity, half loathing.

“Mathias, oh, only the most famous, brilliant poet of his era.”

“Well excuse me,” I muttered. I really hadn’t heard of him.

Oscar put his drink down. “‘It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.’ William Carlos Williams. He knew a thing or two about a thing or two.” He nodded at us and picked up his drink again.

I guess I still hadn’t learned my lesson. “So what does that mean,” I persisted. “What are you supposed to find that you die miserably without.”

“Poetry is breath and bread”—he leaned forward, snapped his fingers like a magic trick—“changed into words.”

“So,” Aaron was laboring over this. “I guess it’s supposed to be super important. Like, the Force in Star Wars.”

“Lord help me Jesus.”

“Are you some kind of a poet?” I asked. “Did you write that one about yellow hair?”

“Some kind of a poet, yes. Did I write it, no. It’s William Butler Yeats.”

I said, “Maybe you need a middle name. Like the other poet guys.” I’d had a couple of drinks and I didn’t care what he thought of me. Poets were from some other planet. Though I’d liked
Mrs. Boone all right. At least she didn’t go around throwing poems at people.

The band started up then and put an end to all the intellectual conversation. They had a hot fiddle player and a keyboardist who kept up with him. People got up to dance and then Aaron and I did, too. In spite of what I told my mom, the two of us were fine together on a dance floor. More than fine. Nothing showy, but we could turn loose. If anybody could find words for how it felt to be dancing right on the edge of the music, high and righteous and sweaty and sexy, now that was a poem I’d read.

The first song led right into a second and a third and after that we headed back to the table for a break. Oscar was gone, I didn’t see him anywhere. I can’t say we were too torn up about it. We saw some other people we knew and we had another drink with them. We danced some more. Rinse, repeat.

Shit happens, is pretty much my go-to explanation for the universe. Not fate, or God’s plan, or everything happens for a reason. If we’d left the bar a little earlier, or stayed a little later? Who knows. Then we wouldn’t have walked out when we did. Maybe shit happens for a reason.