Ben tells me it’s like any other house
except twelve men share two rooms
in simple bunks not unlike barracks
& every morning he must trudge
the gauntlet of friendly, extended
booze bottles bagged & begging
him not to focus on the fall leaves
last-gasping en masse on the walk
to the gas station where he’ll relieve
himself & scrub his teeth with balled
paper toweling until his gums bleed
or half the Happy Birthday song.
He wants me to circle yes or no
because his life has become unsafe
& what he needs most is an ankle
break woman who’ll open the fridge
now & again so he can see the light
still exists inside them both. I won’t
tell him yesterday I lost a patch
of hair on the top of my scalp
but refuse to name it until I know
if it’s not alone. Cryptic Crop Circle.
Solar System in Bald. He wants me
to believe he met Jesus in Memphis
after his car went dead & he forgot
& forgot & forgot to feed his dog.
He has provided temporary refuge
from rain & rape, he says, but why
shouldn’t we be each other’s cover.
Why not disguise the facts, adopt
new identities, have each other’s
backs. He promises to aim his gun
at anyone who tries to harm a hair
on my pretty little head. He can pet
name me. Baby Great Lakes. Tiny
Idea Cluster. Little Target Practice.
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