Current Issue: Fall/Winter 2010

Put the Jukebox On  
Todd Dillard

Gerald’s shit-grinning at me, yelling Be a man! 
which I think is his way of saying let me love you, or

let me let you let me love you, a wish
that clings to us like sweat or poltergeists.

His neck tattoo—HARDCORE—burns like a highway Motel sign, a lit
cigarette wedged like a syringe needle between his fingers,

and I turn my arm over, showing my naked wrists, a gesture
that translates as I’m innocent, or I don’t know.

He goes to work, digging a scar on my arm with his cigarette cherry,
the pain as impossible to turn away from

as a solar eclipse, which is to say,
sobering and blindingly bright,

and I can safely say I have never
and will never love a man like this again.

Someone's yelling put the jukebox on!
and the bartender that I'll take home tonight is shaking her head,

pouring us my trophy shots, and later, in bed, she'll whisper
does it hurt,

reaching out to touch the lemon-juicy blister, crusted with red like a drunk, lipstick kiss,
though she won't touch it, and I won't say a word,

and she'll hold me as if trying to save me, (they all do)
and I'll hold her tight, as if she is.

 

Todd Dillard received his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. His work has appeared in Lumina, Sub-Lit, Best New Poets 2010, and elsewhere. His chapbook, The Drowned Hymns, is available from Jeanne Duval Editions.