A Poem

A Husband

My back supports a family of five.

My wife and children nestle close to me

as I tell stories of how we escaped tyranny.

My words balance misery and mystery,

stirring muddy boots with cold 

suppers and long stares, my life

tired and third-world, a script

written by a starving man for his needy

mother. Why can I only repeat lies? 

My religion is sex. 

I am a pilgrim to women whose skin

is pale and freckled, whose hips 

harbor careful rhythms, each eye

a destination beyond the dilation of time.

I am bound for borders I cannot cross,

through skies I cannot see, against the 

backdrop of a land I am not worthy 

to touch.

My son asks me what it means to be a man.

I tell him it means having a belly like a boiling pot 

and a mind like a grassfire. I tell him it means

appetite and the calculations of instinct.

I tell him it means communism

and equality with every wretch on the news.

I tell him until he stops asking.

Joel Fry

*To read more of my poems Google "Joel Fry poetry."