I wanted to be the best at love
growing up, probably because it hurt
so badly. I wanted every girl
to need me, so I practiced my eyes
in the mirror every night before bed,
for twenty minutes. I trained them
to lock. I trained them to open
like a door does, onto whatever
that shit is squeaking inside of us.
I trained them not to be eyes at all,
so that when girls looked at me
they wondered what I was.
Lothario, Hamlet, Casanova,
James Bond, these were my heroes.
They stacked their love like counting,
it was slick, and since them, I have been
slick as well. So slick. It is gross how slick
I have been. Now, thinking, I realize
just how awful it would be to be
Eros, in the business of the heart. I would love
to talk with him, for I am sure that he is
extremely lonely.
Detroit writer and poet Ian Brown currently resides in New York City where he is receiving an MFA in poetry from the New School. Author of 3 chap books and recipient of the 2009 Jim Cash Award in Poetry, his work can be found in such places as PANK Magazine and the Best American Poetry blog.
