Beefcake

Your boyfriend is like the rest of them: To love him is to wrap your arms around a rooted tree,
shoulders swaying like a drowsy, sauntering beast, at the train station, the airport, the grocery, I see
them: cherub face, little shorts, gum-chewer, leg-sprawler, Nikes and crew socks, wispy hair everywhere except his face, clean-shaven in a baseball hat, Bass Pro Shops, Cabela’s, Planet Fitness all week, he lifts
for you, insecure as any woman, and every night he holds you, your gentle hands rest on
his chest, your legs tangled in his stocky thighs, bulbous calves, your breasts in his
mouth, you lay happily, I imagine, even though your mind is running wildly, painfully,
constantly, I know this because you tell me everything when it’s just us and I’m
driving you to his apartment, I could have told you how I felt, but it’s too
late now, you’ve met his mother, and yes, he can fuck you
in ways I never can, but I don’t worry about that — I think
instead about Easter with his family, weddings where no one
frowns as you dance together, how easily he can give you
children, this world is a perfect blueprint for a good boy
and his girl, no one veers off that path unless
they have to, trust me, at five-foot-three
I’ll spend the rest of this life sizing myself up
to him, all of them,
flexing my biceps in the mirror
when no one’s watching,
like a cuck I’ll watch him
have you, let him be,
it’s not his fault
my heart, my destiny
belongs to him,
not my fault
he’ll never know it.