On different days, I saw two different guys,
both built like football players, wearing sweat
suits, beards, and Nike sneakers. Both had small
pink backpacks strapped around their shoulders. One
was glittery, with Hello Kitty’s face
and dotted hearts. The other one was plain.
It could just be their little sisters’, plain
and simple, but I wonder if these guys
are in a cult, like where they draw a face
on eggs and keep them in their sticky sweat-
pant pockets for a week, like in that one
fraternity. They had to shove the small
shells up their rectums afterwards. A small
expense to shed off who you were, the plain,
sad boy in high school, and become “someone,”
I guess. My mother always said that guys
do stupid things, like going out in sweat-
drenched workout clothes or not wiping their face
when they eat ribs. My brother cut his face
cliff diving into jagged rocks, a small
stain on the shirt he never washed. Their sweat
pours from their pores, they like their cooking plain,
they date much younger girls; guys will be guys.
My own great uncle’s wife is fifty-one,
and he is in his nineties. Once at one
event, I spoke with him and saw his face
cast downward, staring at my breasts. “All guys,”
my grandpa started telling me, “like small
girls. They’re adorable.” I wore a plain
blue dress and tried to hide my armpit sweat.
Some time ago, an older boyfriend’s sweat
dripped down my shoulders as he pinned down one
arm at a time. A painting of a plane
with silver wings took flight above my face.
He asked me, “Do you know why guys like small
girls?” They do silly things, all of these guys.
On pale plain nights, I dream (and wake in sweat)
that guys throw Drink Me potions. One by one,
they hit my face till I am very small.
