Sometimes you have to stand up, be the goddamn Man
throw that Bogart-cool on the table and show them Love
is as welcome as psoriasis, then snap their shrinking balls
off like grapes and toss them in your purse.
YOU, I keep preaching, have the power to change all this.
She wants to live in 1953, with pearls and a starched skirt
chained to a stove, cheek-pecked and respectable,
while he drinks coffee and promises to be home by 6:00
for a game of "Guess who's coming to dinner?"
"You don't understand," she wails, "how much I love him!"
as if this is a foreign language on my pierced tongue, as IF
I were born marbled ice and bitter-grass wine.
Better to be thought Loveless, than admit I ever
Reduced down to something like this, broken, halved
over something as trivial as the realization
that he doesn't love me back.
Sometimes you have to be the goddamn Man, refuse
to wear a starched skirt and white beads, refuse to
take a back burner when they want dinner served late...
"But I don't want to be the man!" she says,
"What should I do?"
and all I could advise was, "Then for god's sake, girl,
stop dating such pussies!"