Dear Trevor from Fort Lauderdale

The one who kicked the baby outof Aunt Traci’s stomach and the one who hung

his wife from the hotel balcony                                                         and the one who lugged Louise aroundher apartment all night by her turquoise hair—they are all you, Trevor the new miserable, Trevor the night manager last week

who elbowed my lover in the back over black dishwater.And this shit’s been going on for months, I learned last night

for the first time over tuna tacos, and think of any small-townman whose lover’s been fucked with and what he might do.

                         Think of all the husbands of once-battered wives,think of your tan Acura I man-hunted down

and the brothers of bruised sisters, the sisters who haven’t survivedstill so beautiful, the cinderblock I belly-flopped

into your windshield, your reupholstered interiorI water-ballooned with pit-bull urine. I’m thinking

of all the mothers, Trevor, who are quiet, how, tonight,poetry will serve you and me. With these boots and the spine

of this hardback anthology, I wait for you to bubblegum outthe back door of 236 South Mall Drive at 10:17, and when you hang

your left onto Lovell toward the parking garage in your server’s apron,punching something into your phone, that scar

on your forehead, a million broken lines will be there with me, Trevor,and I will fucking destroy you.