God Bless the Boys of Long Island

because when janine came home bloody two weekends back, shoeless & shake in the fingers too fervent to point at any man

& her kin, cooled by the cubes rattling in his iced tea, did not so much as look up from the linoleum of the kitchen floor

tommy & tony & dominic never once cut the engine all night, knuckles a waxing moon, wrapped & re-stitched,

got caught in the deli meat slicer, they said as an afterthought, but we all know they didn’t.

iron pumped like a gas tank in the garage all spring

shaped their limbs into a mountain range, peaks high enough to wield those baseball bats from preseason practice unforgivingly

& pound on every door inside the town line

looking for the man who smells of cigarettes & propane.

they tore their fathers into the front yard by the collar,

mothers pouring old whiskey in their coffee

telling them, squared french tips to the sky in half hallelujah, to knock their joints out of place.

they swiped the propane & lit a fire to burn all the grown men’s apathy, car parts & golf clubs drowning in flame.

God bless the boys of long island

with their electric blue mustangs,

the same hue as the dress janine wore, now stained something dark.

when their headlights pass by my window pane i wave an american flag

thanking their tough calves & shoulders broken by the bench press they shoved

into dan labianca’s throat last winter after he ran a hand up all the white dresses at the dive bar down the street.

God bless the boys of long island who make no promises through clenched teeth,

only a fist in the wall, tube-socked foot out the sheets, sweat down the cheek,

ceiling fan humming my beating chest to their even breathing

because if someone burst through the unlocked screen door

they wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t blink

they’d stand in front of my tanned body & splatter paint his face

in the same way they pour orange juice into their sea-breeze when

the sky weaves the world in blue thread & flies suck on their honey-lemon skin.

so as they file into st. mary’s on sunday i say a prayer,

asking may they never coo down to the shape of their father’s shadow

& may they always look to me, with supple legs decorous under my skirt &

mothers waving sun-spotted hands at their perspiring necks, scoffing at the converts,

& see something worth saving.