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
breathing;
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment