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It’s what makes a man a man. It’s as clear and bold as the daily special, according to my mother, glaring at my arms in high school – her voice oscillating between disgust & disappointment with my paunchy extremities. The veins lost in the 70/30 meat mix that I am – discounted for quick sale, never on the top shelf, maybe in an easily passed bin, or at least in a plastic bag. This off-brand version of man – an acquired taste for women who’ve loved me, like gnawing on gristle & fat. No, a real man’s hands and forearms are a fleshy facsimile of the god of thunder’s: swing the hammer, spark skin with touch, and pull closer your woman’s hips. A topographical abundance of veins raises the skin, drives muscle against tendon and bone – the center, creamy, fatty marrow, savory flavor coating the mouth, a velvet thickness mashed between cheek and gum. The tongue’s tip throbs with the same pulse beating through intricate weavings from fingertip to elbow, a cuffed sleeve meets bicep – the romantic tourniquet maintaining pumped girth, where it matters. The DNA of anguish is watching the body spill over its edges. No woman can resist a man who cooks for them, my brother said. It’s your only hope to find love, or a woman’s tongue, without a man’s body.
Copyright 2022 Gerard Robledo
Gerard Robledo is a Mexican American poet from San Antonio and an immigrant son. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso, and his Spanish language poetry translations, poetry, and book reviews have appeared in Voices de la Luna, The Texas Observer, Pilgrimage, Oyster River Pages, Solstice, and Poetrybay, among others. He is a Macondo Writers’ Workshop Fellow and recipient of the 2020 Eduardo Corral Emerging Latinx Writers Mentorship.
Love the poem.
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I do too, Rose Mary. Thanks for speaking up.
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