I Think I Know One When I See One
In the mirror, admiring those pretty-ass eyebrows —
arched to perfection, enviable in terms of thickness,
their condition nice enough to inspire somebody’s
asking whether by choice or not, if deliberately
done, maybe tweezed or waxed, because they
are just too fine. Flawless. Raised, but in a way
that raises suspicions as to whether the pictures
in his bedroom hang crooked because of some
eccentric taste. But they, in fact, are what he was
born with, among other things, such as a penis that
runs warm at night or eyes like hurricane spindles,
that study how men stand like obelisks of rock salt,
how some of them stride as if their legs are separated
by a big inconvenience, how every now and then their
faces fold over perfectly on the hinges of their noses.
But the men are not looking his way to know they are
being looked at, to misinterpret the gaze, to shape
their own brows, at once, both skeptical and scared
of something between them, perhaps an opposite
charge, feared so much so he utters, if not spits,
some flagrant word that must be struck down to
protect reputation: hell naw, I ain’t no damn fa …
because that’s truth in the raw, because if he had
been one, stomping about these streets, he might
already be on fire. Flamed by the fellas, in flames,
rather than in this bathroom with unflattering light,
trimmer hot in hand, revising his hairline a line
across the brow, booty call due soon to set him
straight.
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