It's winter and again
my knees are beginning
to ache. My wants
are simple: (1) you
to teach me how
to spring from my back
to my booted feet
with what appears
from the crowd to be little
to no effort and
a grin, (2) you
for twenty-five minutes or
however long
sketching your form
takes me, (3) you
driving a cerulean convertible
with the wind and
my hands in your hair,
no matter the temperature,
no matter the snow
getting lower, wetting
the upholstery and
your unexplainably bare chest,
and (4) you
on top of me
like fleece
blankets in the Indiana
night. Here
we are and I’d drive
if we weren’t.
My car’s a piece of shit
but this poem
has a convertible
already. Let’s roll
the top back up.
These seats lean back.
The night we met
I wanted nothing
but a little something different,
a seat at the armory
far enough from the front
to not get pulled
into the ring.
I am not a willing participant.
I wanted nothing
but boom-boom-claps,
a few amateurs pinned
in embarrassing times,
and a new conversation
piece with the boy
I’ve drawn dozens
of times but
couldn’t commit to
leaving. Neither could
I believe we weren’t
the only gay couple
who paid to watch men
slam into each other
terribly. Couldn’t believe
they wore matching paisley
button-downs. Then, couldn’t
believe how wholesome,
how clean cut you looked
in a sea of denim
and ’80s highlights.
Couldn’t believe, again,
people in this town
wear camouflage unironically
and I live here.
And how can I describe the lights
at the match, except
as headlights searching
for as big a crash
as possible. When it came—
a shrimp’s concussion—
I was only glad
you knew the game
better. Pretty
boys never win, but
they never get taken
through numbing cold
on a stretcher.
It’s how I’d describe
my relationship:
always both the ambulance
and the wind-chill.
No matter our stagnation,
our directionlessness,
we stay
for its slow wheels.
The night we met
I wanted nothing but
a photograph of my hand
on your brief-clad hip,
my shoulder under
your arm, our grins
brighter than your name
bedazzled over your ass,
nothing but the time
to copy it by hand over
and over in the sketchbook
I’d never show a boyfriend.
But how can you ask
for such a thing
in Southern Indiana.
How can you ask
yourself to spend
the winter’s remainder
alone. What
we really need
is only a steam
and a good stretch.
