You Can't Have Me

​

Mirrored aviators,

clomp clomp of your worn cowboy boots,

roughened hands

from decades of wrestling cattle

through the branding chute—

thinking you’re all that.

 

But you’re not.

 

A piece of me has always

stayed behind. Independent films with oddball characters

(I’m secretly envious of their freedom),

an aching need to protect the coyotes

looking for an easy meal in our chicken coop

that you will shoot

if I’m not around to beg you,

NPR down low after you’ve gone to bed

(that commie station, you snort).

 

The times you have forgotten to honor

and cherish,

that alpha male in you

rising to the surface—why

you should understand the coyotes (or do you?

like a threat?), why the loss

hurts me like that first conception,

these lives I needed to thrive.

 

This piece you wouldn’t understand

or maybe even tolerate. Sometimes

I watch you from the kitchen window,

the dogs following you like cadets,

blackbirds scattering,

as you walk the worn path to the barn.

 

My heart can ache

with love

for you, but it doesn’t mean you

can have me.