Calves
I see people’s deaths
In their legs, in their calves
Especially, especially the calves
Of middle-aged American men
Who, despite being almost
Aggressively heteronormative,
Shave, so that their calves
Are pale and smooth
As the calves of mannequins.
Seeing their calves
I am certain
They will die.
In twenty, thirty years,
Someone, no,
Two people will carry them
And the one who takes
The feet will take hold
Of those calves and no
Matter how many dead men
That man has helped carry,
He will feel the old chill.
But for now they’re walking
Beside their wives
In Hawaii, their wives
Who wear shirts that say things
Like, ‘Stressed, Blessed,
And a hot mess,’ or,
‘Boat hair, don’t care,’
Their calves flickering
With each step
Like lower lungs by which
Their deaths are breathing.