On Dancing With Southern Boys

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 here]