Southern Men.

1. Marriage

I don't want to be holding onto the sleeve of some man,
his yellow skin shinning

I look for you in all the wrong places:
contortionists,
Action Theory
some weird earthquakes in the living room
some weird voodoo. could be yoga.

I don't shave my legs much since baby died,
but he says he'll marry me.
we'd try again, or something.

2.(Southern Men)

I shrug off his Buick LeSabre
Blonde Boy; his fizzy radio packs the car.
maybe I should drive, I say,
not really caring. he thinks
he could show me a thing or two,
his stoned precision on the freeway,
baby, I could land a plane

at the party he tells a story
about a dream he sometimes has
where he's in Vegas.
I'm wary of dreams
but we'd kill for the same things,
like Turkish delight
or Isabella Rossellini in Green Porno.
I once thought I was a dyke
I tell him. He takes it as a challenge.

upstairs, his skin thins out in front of me
like a petition,
a line of red orchids
are sucked up inside the plastic tube.
he loosens his top button,
defenceless on the pull-out sofa.
I'd drop everything to be
an Air Hostess, I feel like saying.

my eyes focus on his mouth.
I try to think who he reminds me of like this,
vacant as a tv
and Southern.
his dumb tone drags across the air,
I think of maple syrup.
he calls it Mojo.

At night I count sad rhythms
in his chest,
his unsympathetic jaw falling open
like a ceremony.

3.(Horses)

last night I woke up dreaming;
his sloppy proposal
laid out on a double bed.
he said I looked like a young Drew Barrymore
(I think I'm more of a Jay Leno,
maybe Roger Ramjet;
our overstated, heroic chins).

I drop and give him twenty,
his hands falling all around me
like a nightmare. my brother's in the next room,
with the Atari.
I think, what are the chances
he'll open the door

I'm a recovering Christian
I lived for six years
with a skeleton key pressed
against my throat
I spent nights in front of the refrigerator
with my legs open. I know black magic,
I said. I ride horses, I said.
I know, I know.

Last year he invited me to his wedding.
His sense of urgency stuck to the back of his throat,
maybe we should dance?

womandisobey