by Dani Putney
I can’t take my eyes off:
You clasp a chilled Coors Light,
shuffle Ariat boots,
adjust your rodeo hat.
The girl to your left tells a story,
maybe about her day at work,
maybe nothing at all.
Your crush is obvious despite
the flames in my eyes,
the bonfire between us,
the smoke engulfing my brain.
It’s possible she doesn’t know
what you’re hiding behind
a hazel gaze and one-step-above-peach-fuzz
on your upper lip:
Confederate flag waves
from your old pickup,
slurs bark—windows down—
as desert donuts bake,
an unquestioning pal
howling in the passenger seat.
I stride past partygoers,
make a beeline to your
compensation-times-five truck,
navigate to the rear tire.
I piss, steam rising
from unexpected warmth,
moon’s penumbra my witness.
I cackle, marvel
as abominable mixed DNA decorates
your American-made chick magnet.
Dani Putney (they/them) is a queer, non-binary, Asian American poet exploring the West. Their poetry most recently appears in Ghost City Review, Mura, Sons and Daughters, and Vamp Cat Magazine, among other publications. Presently, they’re infiltrating a small conservative town full of cowboys in the middle of the Nevada desert. Follow them on Twitter @01000100_Putney.
Photograph “The Lost Cause” by Patrick Feller, Creative Commons 2.0 Generic license.