Bald on top,
flipping a ‘50s
Duck’s *** in the back.
A T-shirt when you weren’t wearing one,
and that short, see-through house coat.
Old Gold on your breath,
those disgusting kisses
I wanted but feared.

You didn’t get upset when I accidentally hit your things.
You danced. You played euchre.
You’re my Victor.
You called me beautiful, no matter what.

Your happiest—
headphones on, making a mix tape,
gardening in the Fords at dusk,
Pabst Blue Ribbon with the boys,
figuring out why the birds
didn’t use your feeder.

You also said,
“If you’re in a guy’s room with your shirt off,
it’s too late to say no.”
Taking my consent
when I needed trust from you.
I still do.

Blue gas stovetop.
Camping.
A yellow “Turn Ahead” sign.
Teasel burrs clung to your leg
Life. Heck of a party
Written on your tombstone

You were fun.
You were broken.
You were both my protector
and the first one
who confused
love with fear.

As I trip on the floor,
watching you come
down the hall,
with your hand out.