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God is the biggest problem. That and Steeler fans, all prayers and gear. The profile is witty, likely bald with a stunning jaw line, but then religion rears it’s holy head and I swipe left, though I think I could compete with god, given I make bread. Still, I only convert milk into yogurt. Then this man appears, all ball-capped and legs with a warm beer. He watches Jeopardy and National Geographic, cooks for his mom and loves cars (I am forgiving). He drives a stick. Lets me drive. I am driven. We write, we phone, we drink, we call the president asshole. We fuck. We make pasta and pozole. We run and lord, he chops the wood in my yard for fire. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I am burning for this after six years of god, in her black and gold glory. And did I mention he actually wants to be catholic? You have sinned, I say, wiping his cum from my mouth. I have done worse, he says and leaves for mass. But then the gov’ner says stay at home and his mom is 90 and my son’s boyfriend is immune deficient. We stay put, apart, constant in longing. And that is all fine, my friends, except the dying part. Death all around love’s little sprouting head. And no one will say it out loud. No one will say magic only comes maybe once in six years and well, don’t touch your face. Don’t fall.
Copyright 2020 Leslie Anne Mcilroy