“Love Poem Disguised as Target TV Stand Instructions” by Adrianna Gordey

I’m indignant in front of an instruction manual
because I detest being told what to do

in such a concise, no nonsense manner.
But your fingers flick through pictures

of wooden planks easily. I sit on the edge
of the corduroy couch, waiting and watching

the rubber eraser tip of your tongue peek out
of your mouth as you digest the instructions.

The deep grooves in your palms fill with splinters
as you place wood planks, small, medium, large,

A, B, C, around the living room. You tease
a forearm-sized piece into place beside

a toe-to-hip-sized board. Your hands are gentle
but firm; there is just enough room for dust

motes and screws between your fingers.
A drop of sweat slips down the grooves

of your wrinkled forehead, the thick forest
of your eyebrows. I kneel beside the manual,

pretending to read, but, really, I just want
to be closer to the action. You thrust

a Starburst orange-handled screwdriver
into my smiling palm. As the clouds

and sun shift outside the window,
the front legs of the TV stand

buckle under the pressure of holding itself
together. We laugh, we curse, we fan our faces

with the pages of the manual. Finally,
you free a bottle of Moscato from the fridge.

Our chipped mugs cheer when we toss
the cheap, plastic legs into the dumpster

where the baby raccoon lives. We may not
be good at building TV stands, but we

still arranged an alphabet’s worth of wood
into love letters only we can see.