Elvis and honey and the beekeeper’s daughter
pin me like a leaf to this notion of you—

After the party—Nick waving wildly, men
exploding like soft wet fruit, ripe

enough and sweet—the walk home: 27th to 12th,
15 blocks past houses I think I’ve seen.

There’s a student of mine, screaming drunk
from the other side of the street, the bright side,

the Robyn side. If streets are gendered, they’re
either Nicks or Robyns, and the former (in the street-world)

never bristle at being called “avant-garde” or “feminist”—
I want to put quotes around every phrase, “like this,”

and honey to a bear and ferociousness go hand-in-hand,
and you, dear, back at Iowa, a dustbowl away,

a world of fruit and wheat. At 19th or thereabouts,
Josh says: “But you could take a chance at something better.”

And he means “something you,” he means “something there.”
“I’d prefer safe mediocrity,” I reply. And the buzzing

of the store-front neon sets me off on honey, daughters,
bad bears, fruit and bugs, and this night that doesn’t end

until Marci sees your picture on my fridge, now faded,
but still clear enough to prove you’re not a blonde.

Originally published in three candles.