The men in my life

The men in my life pay attention
to birds and the weather and the long-winded stories of children.

They know that life—their life
and what they choose to do with it
is serious business, not to be outsourced
to culture or apathy or fear
though we all feel their pull.

They have understood the bitterness that arises when a person chooses the harmfully familiar path time and time again—
how it eats away at some vital part of us
that is hard to call back once enough
erosion has occurred.

They are tuned into what is
and what isn’t about them
and they don’t manage a fleet of Trojan horses, wheels spinning at the sight of any perceived crack in their legends.

They are at ease with life (ish)
because they pour love into it.
They use scissors to cut cilantro and tell you what spices to add to the soup they made because they were craving it.
They aren’t offended if you can’t eat the bowl whole.

They invite me to join them in creation, not destruction.

They can hold two realities at once
like the jagged weight of a man’s pain
worthy of so much empathy
and him acting like an arsehole.