A History of Men

I’ve spent a lifetime
underneath people who imagine
my love will fix them. Yet,
they remain broken, and more
often, worse for the wear.

I’m not interested in a man
who gives from his own veins.
Too much weight in these awkward
gifts: sentimental rose petals
from a funeral I never attended,
a lock of hair, or a talisman
passed down for four generations.

I’ve been expected to fall all
over any man who buys me
a meal. Some have told me
that truth is subjective, that love
means love if it is whispered
in his sleep, but he’d never
look me in the eye to lie.

Some men lock the doors, then beg
me to open them. As if my willingness
to work, would solidify my future.

I’ve had men who escaped
from drowning in the pouring dreams,
into my own back door. They always
bring in the rain in with them.

Still, every time I tell a man
I just can't do it anymore.
He swears he’ll be there
with a blanket and a whisper:
It won't hurt this time, just run up
to tomorrow and love feet first.