Last guy he asked how old, 28, and he’s
oh, that’s the best age, that there’s prime,
but I’ve learned numbers better than that,
told him maybe run it by next year, cuz
some guys it’s my blues, some this smile,
long legs, pure natural blonde, ain’t
no song ain’t already been sung.
This boy once, fresh in from Oregon, said
he plain loved my name, something he’d
never heard before, music in the high trees
over and over this glassy-eyed whisper
Jane, Jane… figuring it might be some
West Coast thing, but moved to Eugene,
can’t throw a stone without hitting one.
Another guy it was these cheekbones,
wanted me to slice through his chest, lay
it open, pluck out his heart raw and bleeding,
see how long eyes keep their shine,
said if I didn’t care to mess my shirt
he had a straight razor, use that instead—
first man I knew really meant what he said.
George Perreault has received awards from the Nevada Arts Council, the Washington Poets Association, the International Dancing Poetry Festival, the McCabe Poetry Prize, and the Fischer Prize in Poetry. He has served as a visiting writer in New Mexico, Montana, and Utah, and his work has been nominated both for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent work appears in The American Journal of Poetry, Timberline Review, High Desert Journal, and Weber – The Contemporary West.