When I hit thirteen, the noun between my legs
turning into a verb, my father sat me down and said

one day you will have a wife of your own. A man
will come—a helpful neighbor knocking

while you’re at work perhaps, or a garlicky colleague
at an office party, or a lifeguard on a spit of sand—

and that man will grip your beloved, perhaps
even in your sheets, but that won’t mean you’re weak.

Remember our great ancestor, Menelaus, triceps
the size of grapefruits, his chest far hairier

than that slim-hipped boy who slipped in and swiped
his wife, like a calla lily from his lapel. Remember

Marcus Aurelius’ words: reject your sense of injury
and the injury itself disappears. No need to launch

another Trojan, just because some stallion
trotted into her. No need to perish like Pushkin

slumped in ice. Begin preparing now. When friends
sleep over, let them colonize your bed. Never yell

shotgun—the backseat will scrub you down,
so years later, when your wife stumbles home

with that glazed, seen-god look in her eyes, the sweat
of his trigger-happy fingers still greasing the white

napkin of her thighs, you can settle into that moment,
ask her how it was, if you can witness next time.