By Joshua Boettiger

Sibylle gave a toast at our wedding—
May your beloved always be like a stranger to you.
So we practiced, took turns being the hitchhiker.
It was a turn-on, but it was also a risk—
strangers can be so cruel.

I know a man who says, I don’t know,
to every question he is asked, even questions
he knows the answer to (especially those).
It’s not like I’m ignorant.
I know that every six seconds
another word is dropped from the lexicon.
I know there are tables that mark the tides—
High, then low, then high, then low.
I’d like to be that weatherman.

But better than that would be
standing here at roadside’s bend

as you come around the turn
holding the wheel with one hand,
shocked by the suddenness of me.

I remember the first day of kindergarten
crying outside the door of the classroom
in my mother’s arms. I don’t know
what we are going to learn, I wailed.
Shhh, she said. That’s why you’re here.
No one knows.

You and I took the fool’s vow—
better to believe
than to be left flat-footed
when the ram’s horn blasts.

But this, too, is a strategy.

---

Joshua Boettiger’s poetry has appeared in the Missouri Review, The Southern Review, Image, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best New Poets and was a recent finalist for the American Poetry Review’s Gerald Stern Prize (2025). Boettiger lives in the Hudson Valley of New York and is the Jewish Chaplain at Bard College, where he also teaches.