Adrienne Christian

Poems 

Call Me Porky
 

When I was a kid, they called me crybaby,

because I cried when they called me Porky,

because I cried when anybody got bullied,

or any animal —

the neighbors’ pink and gray Pitbull kept outside

through Michigan’s bitter Novembers-through-Marches.

My cousin once smashed a rat with our baseball bat,

I also cried my eyes out about that,

its tooth through its poor head,

its little life now a soup of dark red blood with bits

of skull and strips of fur on the ground by the dumpsters.

It was just trying to find something to eat.

And I am still that sensitive girl, bleeding heart, just like that rat’s.

Only now I’ll bash your head in for calling me Porky.

Or for leaving some sweetheart Pitbull on the balcony.

I Agreed to be a Side Chick
 

I’m ashamed to admit it

but during the Pandemic

I felt so alone

I agreed to be a side chick.

We met online. We’d meetup in my Jeep.

We’d get takeout and eat it in the park,

the windows down, the doors off.

Sometimes we’d ride by his friend’s house

just to honk and say Hey

but then he’d say “Hey, just because you met my friend

that doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship.”

Christmas, he brought me good gifts.

Two weeks later we took a trip to Barbados.

But after the flight, in the Uber, when we kissed good

night, and I wanted him to spend the night, he said,

“We’re not in a relationship.”

Any home maintenance issue I had he’d fix.

If he’d cooked, he’d bring me a plate and a slice of cake.

And if I was feeling insecure he’d come see about me,

ask “What’s wrong, Luv? What do you need?”

Every week we’d get bagels from the Shipley’s on Blanco

and climb into his backseat.

He would pull my dress up, my panties down, and really go downtown.

We’d babywipe his beard and both grin in the afterglow. Then he’d say it:

“Just so you know…”

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