Allow me to be a reflection
of all of her tastes, including
that core piece of her
that makes fun of me for not
screaming the lyrics of a song
about John Deere green.
How could I truly love her
without owning one pair
of Wrangler jeans?
It is because I love her I still
drive the forty minutes
to sit at a field party near
a retention pond, where one
of her friends, a lawyer now,
shoots fireworks over
a two-lane highway with multiple
decorated crosses for teenagers
that couldn’t find the middle lane.
There’s something about
the way she gets away with shit
that makes her a fucking peach.
There’s something about
the way she wiggles when
she comes home after a few days
that answers all my questions.


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