— after Fergie
My future man doesn’t do clubs, doesn’t sweat
his way to amen, doesn’t get what’s the big deal
about being invited to be in the calendar, Heaven’s
Hunks. He listens to my music in the cryptic car
he bought to take me to the country to prove how
many plants I can’t name. He loves that I make
up Red Pirate’s Goatee, Moonboots, Wind’s Lover.
I’ve been many a man’s Bible, been unbelievable.
He leaves, and I’m relieved that I’ve the talent not
to ask for anything. How terrible to learn that in this
world that I lack the talent of betrayal. Friends have
died, and exhaustion doesn’t get anyone a medal.
We’re a nation of men trying not to cry. My future
will be defined by a man, yes him, and I don’t care
if that’s wrong. He will trust me because of my flaws.
© Rane Arroyo