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My Debbie Littlejohn Says…
At this juncture, just lie to me. Tell me that the poinsettias will blossom on Friday. That the soil will be rich in minerals and runoff. Tell me that the bodies slapping will render good sex. Our
lips moist with want and tongues panting. Just lie that the smile on your wrinkling face, I put there with love and sweat for ancient things that are new now—us old. I still see us together,
in that line for future stars and naked footed-nights in optimal supreme lemongrass. Lie to me,
but not like a politician, more like a child that's scared she will lose her breath because her mama
told her that one man would replace another man in her life. If you can't lie to me correctly,
why are we together? This is an ultimatum born from the smile of a soul-stealer—a man. Place
your head on pillow. Let me smell your breath enter my nose, tickle the hairs. Let me feel coarse hair against the back of my legs. Let me say no, once. No, twice. No, three times, four. That I
don't belong to anyone, to anything but myself, and I am just present, a blessing that I gave you in this moment, where our eyes glisten at each other like catfish eyes, and your eyelashes,
long and lashy in artificial light, are full with shadows that cover me like umbrellas in torrents. As we exhale, I don't run away from you tonight. And I know I can kill myself daily, but I won’t.
- Curtis L. Crisler
Curtis L. Crisler was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. Crisler, an award-winning poet/author, has published six poetry books, two YA books, and five poetry chapbooks. He is the Indiana Poet Laureate and Professor of English at Purdue University Fort Wayne.