Chest Tattoos and Chevy Impalas

i’m ready to be the brunt
of a 90’s grunge song
in drop-D with the fuzz of a Boss
resonating from a Honda Civic’s windows;

to be a story for the bar
when the bourbon’s running low
and you have to get home
to pay the babysitter;

to be the reason you can’t look him
in the eye anymore
when he’s on top of you

to be yet another notch
in your mother’s belt that she keeps
hidden from the world like the photos
of her pregnant at age eighteen;

to be the hint of caramel
you wish your son had
instead of the red-pale-pinkness
of his diaper rash;

to be a backseat that you see
as a king-sized with silk sheets
rose petals and champagne
instead of empty Budweiser cans;

to take you to the city
on a futon nestled in the back corner
of your village apartment
with an old lady ready to die a floor above you;

to be the reason you look
as if you’ve sucked a lemon
when you say i love you
as he walks out the door;

to be a phone call after being
two weeks late while a pregnancy test
sits on the sink, as you sit on the toilet
grinning through your tears;

to be the reason why you would tell
someone not to pull out—to come
inside and to never
ever leave;

to be a Planned Parenthood brochure
on the counter that you look at
but can’t really read—Jesus
stares down at you from the door frame;

to be the slam of a door
after nine months when clearly
the crown upon the baby’s head
is not of gold but of thorns;

to be a WIC coupon—a gallon
of 2% milk and a box of Gerber cereal,
bottle liners and a can
of formula;

to be an extra shift at McDonald’s
because it’s time for shots—
to be a call to Comcast
to cancel your service;

to be unknown, reflective,
a shadow of that night in November
when the frost covered the ground
and i covered you.

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