I’m going out
to snag a man. I’m going
out in my red flannel,
a bleached tank underneath.
I want to find a man with clean
teeth, his scotch neat. In this town
most men are whiskey-lipped,
tote camo coats and boast
twelve-pointers and nine inch
dicks. Those guys are good
for a laugh. I’d never spend
a night in houses where the walls
are tacked with trout and trophy
heads. I need a man
with soft hands. Thick fingers.
A man who can trace
the vein in my neck and tap
jazz against my collarbone.
I want a man unafraid
to stroll down Front Street
with his hand in mine. I want
a man to tear off my shirt,
to hold me tight
against his chest so
I can’t tell my skin from his.
I want a man with ungreased
hair, with a tongue too thick
to fit between my lip
and teeth. I want a man
with weak ankles, so dance
can’t keep us from conversation.
I’ve tucked three ribbed Magnums
in my wallet. My sheets
smell like lavender, and my neck
is freshly shaved. I want
a man who will strum
my ribs like harpstrings.
A man who I can carry
past the patrons of Red Ginger,
past the Opera House, over foam
puddles of April rain. The cross
of Front and Union, our threshold.
