After My Mother Apologized for My Childhood, We Went to Brunch
I know we both had coffee, and maybe the breakfast
bar. It was late enough that we could’ve had lunch,
and a Diet Coke, maybe I had a sandwich
and iced tea. We pretended like we always had,
didn’t think back to what was said before
we ended up in the kitchen of my apartment—
what she said about how God could save me,
what I said about how he didn’t. My rage that she
wasn’t crying, though I was, because she thought
she was right, and I knew she wasn’t, and how
she stood behind the old beliefs because listening
would’ve meant undoing, what her whole life,
she had done—and I had undone—in the name
of Jesus, but there was a shift when we left
the living room for different rooms, after what
we did say, and what we almost said, both wounding
and un-wounding in tandem. Then her behind me,
a break, an opening so slight in the quiet, her words,
and me trying to comfort, to make her feel better,
unable to accept what I’d always wanted—
my whole life—and just received, but I didn’t know
an apology could feel like sadness, and forgiveness
its own kind of grief, a new way for us to be distant.
After we got the check, figured out tip, driving
back to my place: Did I really tell you to get AIDS and die.
Yes, I said, and that if I were gay, you’d want to put me
on a bus and never see me again. Then silence,
that place we always returned to, but somehow,
this time, new: There are some beautiful houses in this town,
she said, I wish I could learn more about them.
Plathoholic: A Party Game
One of the following is true:
1)
I have a single strand of Plath’s hair
in an envelope pressed in a book.
James told me I should put it
in my mouth and taste it.
2)
I bought a second-edition Ariel
at a used bookstore and switched it
with a first edition at the library.
3)
I went to Plath’s childhood home
when the owners weren’t there
and took a package from the porch
but never opened it.
One of the following is true:
1)
I swallowed Plath’s hair
because I wanted her
inside me.
2)
A boyfriend tore up
the stolen book because
he knew I loved it.
3)
I opened the box and found:
a) a jewelry box inscribed:
Devoted wife, Love of my life
b) a copy of He Comes Next:
The Thinking Woman’s Guide
to Pleasuring a Man
c) kitchen knives
with a wooden block
and sharpener
Leading Men
Thelma and Louise and a blow dryer made Brad Pitt
a star. The Notebook made Ryan Gosling
a household name. Casino Royale is why Daniel Craig
is Daniel Craig. London was where I first saw Chris Evans,
but have you seen his chest in Captain America? Chris Hemsworth
(that chest!) got my attention in Thor. Colin Farrell
is the best in Fright Night. I love Colin Farrell
the most, though, in Seven Psychopaths. He and Brad Pitt
should make a movie together. Chris Hemsworth
and Ryan Gosling should, too. (Don’t confuse Ryan Gosling
with Ryan Reynolds.) It’s hard to believe Chris Evans
did an ensemble piece—Knives Out—with Daniel Craig.
Captain America and James Bond in the same movie! Daniel Craig
is a terrific actor—stage and screen—but when Colin Farrell
cries in In Bruge, he’s hard to beat. Chris Evans
is handsome, but he’s not a “great” actor. Brad Pitt
is good, but he probably got the Oscar for being shirtless. Ryan Gosling
is great, too. He’s more serious than Chris Hemsworth,
but do we really care if he’s serious? Chris Hemsworth’s
glowing torso is almost as magical as Daniel Craig
emerging from the ocean in a blue speedo. Ryan Gosling’s
abs in Crazy, Stupid, Love are crazy, stupid, and loved. Colin Farrell—
if you like lean and cut—is right up there with Brad Pitt.
Okay, Brad Pitt’s body is better. Chris Evans
is the most “jock” hot and Chris Evans
has a great cock (accidentally leaked online). Chris Hemsworth’s
dick isn’t online, but I’ve seen Brad Pitt’s
in Playgirl (yum), and Daniel Craig’s
floats in the bathtub in Love Is the Devil (slurp). Colin Farrell
shows his dick in a sex tape. (Watch It!). Ryan Gosling’s
cock is online, too. Someone snapped him peeing. Ryan Gosling
cries well in Lars and the Real Girl. Chris Evans?
His pecs make me weep. Again, Colin Farrell,
in In Bruges is one of my all-time fave cries. Chris Hemsworth
doesn’t cry, or maybe he does? Again, does it matter? (Those arms!) Daniel Craig
does a great “almost-cry” in Flashbacks of a Fool (bad movie). Brad Pitt
cries a lot. In Fight Club he’s as hot as Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth,
Colin Farrell, and Ryan Gosling combined. Between Daniel Craig
and Brad Pitt? I can’t believe I’m saying this: Brad Pitt.
He Lied
when the man asked if he wanted to go home with him
when the man asked if he wanted to get fucked
when the man asked if he was always this quiet
when the man asked if it hurt
when the man asked if he was having fun
when the man asked if he was still having fun
when the man asked if he wanted to stay all night
when the man asked if he wanted to do it again in the morning
when the man asked if he wanted to have brunch
when the man asked if he wanted to stay another night
when the man asked if he cared to get his own ride home
when the man asked if he was okay keeping things casual
when he said the man asked if it hurt
Some Days Everything I Do I Do
with a broken heart.
Today, for example,
I threw away
the ceramic red
wheelbarrow she left
in the yard last
winter; it froze
and cracked beside
the abandoned
birdbath. I know,
I’m writing a poem
that mentions
a red wheelbarrow—
fuck off!