FOR A YOUNG SOUTH DAKOTA MAN

I no longer want to meet
people who have no muscles.

I love your muscles.
I love the barbwire cuts in your
         tan-gold shoulder,
the rattlesnake skin tied around
         your head,
the way your hands curl like warm rabbits
         beside the campfire.

I planted a lilybulb,
hoed the corn,
rode the horse,
swam in muddy Missouri,
toed a dusty toad
with you
          green green green green
                     you.

I’m in love with the way
the land loves you:
the way you greet
          morning wildrose
          afternoon fence post
          evening fire under forest leaves.

You show me how to walk
in the country dark:
          Black soil in waves
          under white moon Dakota.
          Black soil seep,
          sing Dakota.
          Black soil in your fingernails,
          white sweat on your forehead.

You speak of farmlights,
and the north forty.
You speak of choosing a home
by swimming toward it through river water at night
and judging whether you need to live there
by listening to the animal sounds on shore.

You move with light in you 
toward me in the dark.
when you open our mouth and eyes,
light rides out of you toward me.

I no longer want to meet 
people who have swallowed no living light from black soil.

MALE POETS

My mother 
knows
about poets.
“Oh these poets,”
she says.
“Keep away from them.”
Gawking through doors and windows,
they call the turkey a phoenix,
call the mashed potatoes Mountains of Myrrh,
Call me Sappho.
They become murderers, rapists
or shoe salesmen
at will,
or, god help us,
horses,
or the ghosts of horses.
They travel long distance
to write odes to each other
at the ocean
without touching water or foam,
until the following Saturday
when they bring a cup of cool beer
to their lips.
And what would one 
make of me
in bed? padding
my good lines,
editing my best lines,
fiercely counting
my feet?