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by Erica Dawson

NELLE 1 | 2018

Next time I get exotic, I’m going to call
You Hoss. Third person. You’re beside yourself.

Instead of You can get it, Hoss can get it.

When Hoss is getting it, he describes, at length,
the horny femur of a rooster’s leg
good for cockfights because,
                              of course, he knows
about roosters and cockfights.

                              And Hoss will ask
if it’s racist to call him Hoss. No sir.
Got white guy friends. Fuckloads of Allman Brothers.

Me: You’re a hassa for asking me that. And Hoss?


                    Hassa: as in Pacino as
in “pig” as in a corrupt cop as in
Scarface. Hoss hasn’t seen Scarface.


And the sun will set on us the way it does.
Stars will appear to rise, but won’t. And on
your chest, the shadows from the opened blinds
collar your neck and cross your Adam’s apple.

Some kind of Jesus, though I’m never saved.

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