by John Andrews
I love them most when they speak, not
the bullshit about shoveling cow shit
all day, but the way they make words
linger just long enough to live in.
Like my youth
when boy lasted two minutes, till
they came.
Sweetheart was something
reserved for private, their girlfriends
and me. The way
a man at the Round Up
can bring me to prayer with the word
Baby.
I know this is some patriarchy shit,
or a hold-over endearment from their mama.
I’ve read enough to know the etymology,
taken enough faggots to the face,
trash out Chevy Silverado windows
and still burning cigarettes to my
arm, to really know.
Just let me have a moment where I am queen
of prom, or homecoming, or harvest festival,
or whatever fruit/vegetable/animal/mineral
plus celebration fits his hometown of 2,052,
on a good day, in sunlight
when he calls me his.
[Read more of John Andrew’s poems]
[Check out John’s back porch wisdom]
