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She was always the cerebral one.
He was a tumult, a tempest, a true tribulation.
But for him she learned accounting to sort lentils,
Husbandry to pluck golden fleece,
Physics to contain beauty in a box.
She was always the cerebral one,
A scholar.
He loved her for her mind.

Her mother said she could do better,
Her father told her it would all end in tears,
But she shivered with the memory of stolen nights.
He set her afire with inspiration,
Appreciated her beauty in the most basic ways.
But he loved her for her mind.

They only ever had one argument.
It was many years later,
After the ambrosia had burned through her veins.
He sulked for a week.
She hid in her books.

She had called him a Mama's Boy.


Copyright © 2003 Leah Bobet

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Leah Bobet is a student at the University of Toronto with dreams of becoming a starving artist. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared most recently in On Spec, Ideomancer, and Star*Line. In her rapidly shrinking spare time, she enjoys reading, baking, playing guitar, and all things Japanese. For more about her, visit her website.

Leah Bobet's most recent novel, An Inheritance of Ashes, won the Sunburst, Copper Cylinder, and Prix Aurora Awards, and her short fiction has appeared in multiple Year's Best anthologies. She lives and works in Toronto, where she picks urban apple trees, builds civic engagement spaces, and makes large amounts of jam. Visit her at
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