Friday Love Poem: More Elliott D. Smith

I'm so happy to be celebrating the first day of April with a poem from one of my most inspiring pals.

After you read him here, you should go over to the SF's sisterwife publication, The Legendary, and read/listen to For Everyone Not Convinced By Dan Savage's "It Gets Better" Campaign. You'll be glad Elliott's on your side of the playground, giving the bullies what-for.

So about this love poem. I get a lot of really hot poems emailed to me, but this was the only one that made me kinda wish it was just being...sent to me, not submitted. I may or may not carry it in my pocket sometimes for luck. But enough telling on myself.

NO BIG SECRET

after Bikini Kill “For Tammy Rea”

I like women.

Women in high heels who slow sip whiskey

far straighter than they are;

Women flaunting tank tops and tattoos

telling stories of tethered promises.

Women who borrow hips

from cupcakes and six packs.

I like women

who love without a plan,

who fuck in the time signature

of riot grrl,

and make love out of white-knuckled-headboards

and handcuffs.

This is a pick up line

smeared across my pillowcase

in the three fingered fashion of last night

asking for more.

I like women

who smile morse code

(long long short short short long long)

into the payphone of my subconscious

and tell the operator to fuck off.

Which brings me to you.

I know we haven’t been on a “date”

yet, but I checked our romantic compatibility

on astrology.com, and boy are we in trouble.

Apparently our union is one

of innate practicality, and I don’t know about you,

but that terrifies me.

Let’s pretend we’re seventeen,

when my version of chivalry was sneaking you in

to my parent’s house.

We’d watch infomercials til 5am,

then, when the earth conspired to freeze you

out of your car,

I’d bring glasses of hot water

to melt the ice.

I would’ve rather chiseled your bottom lip,

chipped away at your smile until I could hide there,

let your tongue lick my wounds,

but I wasn’t that smart.

Instead, I waited ten years,

listening always to our favorite song,

“Past the billboards and the magazines

I dream about being with you,

we can’t hear a word they say,

let’s pretend we own the world today,

the sunny side of the street where we are.”

I have walked the sunny side

of every street

looking for your shadow

only to be disappointed by congruent strangers.

“Wipe the tears from my face.

Wipe the sweat from my hair,

tell me we’re not better off” (alone).

Elliott D. Smith believes in the power of tattoos and reference books. He currently works with people with conviction histories, helping them to reduce barriers to employment and housing. Elliott also conducts research on masculinity, friendships, and identity formation. His writing tackles issues of gender, sexuality, and family, and is greatly influenced by the people and places he loves.