The Baronet
Something akin to a hellhound, triplicate
the blaze of a sedentary fire, his lordship
polishing the pistol handles in the foggy
circumference of mid-morning in the arctic
tang of Alaskan winters,

it was a strong-fisted song, the scrap
of sand in your teeth, the Zapotec features,
angular, wide nose and greenish eyes,

he said, over drinks
that it was my skin

beautiful,

and my hair

beautiful,

under the ocher lights in a midcentury pub
conversation turns to the land bridge, the fish
sleeping lazily against the knocking shore of the peninsula, and
the complexity of DNA, when you had COVID, and
if you were to have another kid,

we swap smiles, meander slowly
toward the road, lost in ownership,
heading toward a parking lot
where you hold me tightly
for several minutes
more than necessary.