New Poem: We Planted These Trees By Hand

by Bryan Borland

Dumbass 1 asks the questions
I hear most, Which one is the woman?
Which one do you call Ma?

I ask him back Which one of your parents takes it
from behind? Dumbasses 2 and 3 turn like wolves,
growling laughter. I get this, mostly from the guys,

girls, sometimes, too, when they travel
in packs and sharpen their teeth on anything
different: longer socks, new haircut, two dads.

I can see it in their eyes, though, jealous of my solid pair
to their awkward four, to their bickering three,
to their lonely one and weekend visits; no stepmonsters

in my house, just footballs and violins, rooms full
of the smell of baking bread and used books. I can name
the last 20 Secretaries of State. My batting average

is .385. I know my home wasn’t created
by a six-pack and a busted rubber. They fought
for me. They won. Who fought you into existence?

© Bryan Borland