As long as there is bourbon, & dice to be thrown,
we’ll put our records on. The eighth notes
in my tattoo will lift from my arm
& snake your neck. Danger can lead to safety.
Like a first date at the gun range & wedding
soon after. Who can tell us how to live?
The world exists, of course. Bars fill,
the young fumble toward each other
as the clocks near two. We don’t have to
go home. We’re already there.
Tomorrow morning, you’ll fold my shirts,
& I’ll remember that devotion isn’t prayer
on bent knees. It’s returning again & again
to the work of love: to sear steak, pluck stems
from mushrooms, to feed me.
I belong to you, & you belong to me, too.
Though we can’t agree on our song,
it plays still, & will echo in my daughter,
as she learns that predictability, like a golf cart
that always starts, can also be a kind of freedom.
Though you’re tireless, you deserve
to fake a fever & rest, watch men halfway
around the world kick & sweat to make their
countries proud. You make me proud.
Daylight wanes in the winter, & in the dark,
you can’t see shiny cars. Instead, the blaze
of Christmas lights you hang each year
to make our home (as if one could) more beautiful.
Like the rainbow of neon on the Vegas strip,
every bulb blinks your name.