In Defense of Marriage
There’s no security in two men together,
no guaranteed payment, no signatures,
no witnesses besides the lady next door
who suspects our apartment is a one bed-
room like hers. We buy a dog for insurance,
have one bank account, and our initials
carved in the back of the TV stand: S hearts D
and D hearts S. I insisted it be mutual.
Tonight we fight, slam doors on each other
in our best imitation of love. I drive our car
in circles, discovering I am my father.
Your parents hope I won’t return
and you’ll settle for an Indiana girl
with big hips, low self-esteem,
maybe even children. But this isn’t 1945,
and you didn’t just step off a boat fighting
a war people actually believed in. And I
was never your secret cabin boy,
all stars and stripes. In the morning we’ll fuck
without condoms, and hold each other in spoons,
believing that security is the possibility of disease.