The Reason

I’m not a love poet;

I don’t talk about arms made of brick—

all the better to trap you in, my dear;

I don’t trip the light orgasmic—

all the better to blind you with, my dear;

I don’t turn kisses into metaphors about the ocean—

all the better to drown you with, my dear;

but, today, I am that man,

because you’ve made me the reason.

You tell me that you’ve spent the past week

walking into work with a cantaloupe-half grin,

inspiring your boss to ask, “Boy, what are you so happy about?”

When you whisper these sweetest of somethings into my ear,

I want to scream, “It feels so good to be someone’s reason again!”

because eyes

because sexy back

because fingers that shoot bolts of electricity

because he stands taller than a twin-less tower

because

because

because

because

because I’ve been writing “because” poems since the other one left

and, now, I get to trade in my because, because I’m the reason.

So, no, I’m not a love poet;

I don’t pen lines about eyes that are deep—

all the better to bury you in, my dear;

I don’t trip over love that’s unrequited—

all the better reason to put you in a straightjacket sweater, my dear;

In my poetry, I don’t talk about hearts,

because, in the past, mine’s been broken—

all the better reason to fix you up, my queer dear.

It’s early and

we’re nowhere close to love,

but being your reason

gives me a reason to huff and puff before I blow

you

away

with

lips that know their share of wolves—

all the better to kiss you with