July/Aug 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 4 PoetryJuly 1, 2015 |

Blue-Eyed Boyfriends

lining up to look at me all at once: a firing squad of looking, my head in one of those big paper cones to keep a bitch from biting her wounds, back up against those gray brick apartments, hemmed by the bayou. All my blue-eyed boyfriends swaying like spikerush, staring me down. Some without socks, grown stockier, self-effacing, shit-faced. Doesn't matter. They just want to see me see them. Their eyes—some wet, shallow, open as pie pans left in the rain, some all pupil, so bottomless-inkwell you cant see the blue until it smudges your thumb. Some for a second, like looking through the sunroof between buildings. Others so light they look blighted by lime, bleached of gravity. What to do now. I throw nickels at them in remuneration. They ping off the pylons or platt tail-up onto the sludge of the bayou. All my ammunition gone, I get it. A storm funneling up in the Gulf, joining forces to fix me in its forecast.

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