Young or Dead

     It helps when you are irate 

             with a beloved

to imagine them as a 9 year old 

             or in a coffin 

it lends perspective        

            and other adult things

one must cultivate

          to be direct      and not a prick

for instance my husband 

          who oft drives me crazy 

with his only-child-ways 

     prepared a perfect French press 

one summer morning

after 6 weeks of rain 

 and saw sunlight crossed the floor 

  I almost stroked out with gratitude 

shed a single tear of god’s good grace

when he started talking about fucking Bitcoin      

but listen up people 

        when my husband was young 

he was short   never got the girl 

           teased for his dislike of sports

and when he was 9 

he dressed as a woman and sang

mined his mellifluous voice flair for drama 

picked up a guitar and grew into a man 

a present and joyful father 

a real tiger between the sheets 

and though he pisses me off

   if I picture him dead

everything is crystal clear 

   I am magically a better human 

I hug him and say 

I love you in all your manifestations,  baby, 

but could you please consider me 

      in addition to you 

and he says okay honey 

     that language is honey to my tender ears

and the twinkle in his eye 

is the welling of concession

since I’m a bit of an asshole too

       and he is picturing me as a 9 year old 

sitting up in bed     frozen 

       watching my father 

have a piss in my toybox

he is picturing me at 8

setting aside a butterfly net

to tie laces caked with mud

or maybe today it’s easier to see me dead 

fingers stiff noggin juiced like a lemon

and you know what

that is one of the many

righteous ways to love 

  a clever trick to move the stone

from the tomb, baby, 

so get up from the cold hard ground,

you’re undead, you’re alive,

so walk on out into the day  and forgive.