Best time
to fall in love is at 16, right after feeding
the chickens in rubber boots with thick shit
on the soles. Best time to unbutton
your first pair of boy’s Levis
is after a crunchy Honeycrisp
and a slice of Gruyere—your hips open
like a salad bowl. Each vertebrae
of the zipper is a bet that God is busy
with better sinners. I don’t make the rules,
okay. Best time to buy a bra
is right before the moon finishes
milking itself, and best time to break
is after black coffee and raisins.
That one time I fell
in love on the 401
Hellish on a Jeep, she is.
Long face, like a slivered
almond. Two times
she looks to the left
before flicking her signal
and roaring past me
like a bitch slap. Her body
odour, rich like a medjool
date, follows me. I drive.
Things we’ve made
a little life, and your late uncle’s stew
that tastes more like red
wine than beef. We’ve made our neighbours
rage on Friday nights coming home
from the bar with tongues
as thick as Jesus and thighs splitting
at the seam. Mostly, we’ve made blue
turn orange and black turn gold
and that’s a lot more than anyone
else can say.