Two Poems by Molly Cross-Blanchard
Please Don’t Sue Me, Meghan Trainor. This is Not a Pop Song.
Dear future husband, sometimes I imagine you watch me
while I do some menial task, like season a cast iron pan, vacuum
the blinds. I haven’t met you yet but I really think you’d like
the wistful face I make when I de-ice the refrigerator. I think you might
admire my wherewithal, the way I don’t need you at all.
Dear future husband, I thought you were the vegan bodybuilder
who took me skating but didn’t know how to skate. The bouncer
with the belly like a bald kiwi fruit. The dentist with green eyes
and sort of stubby thumbs.
I never thought you’d be a famous person, husband,
but when Danny danced to Aaliyah on The Mindy Project
I hoped you could be him.
Dear future husband, I don’t even think I want to be married but
I’d like a long engagement, and a party. I won’t take your name
or toss a bouquet, but let’s rent a nacho cheese fountain.
Dear future husband, do you watch Love Story and wish
you looked like Ryan O’Neal? I do.
But if you have a scar on your face from a snow machine accident
and your beard is patchy, and you have three curly hairs
that grow just above your buttcrack, I’m sure they’ll grow on me.
Dear future husband, you should know I’m pretty fucked up.
That I move fast through the day to make myself smaller
for you even though I know you’re nothing like him.
Dear future husband, I’ve cleared a drawer in the dresser
for your t-shirts and socks. I’ve made a space for you
to fill. The shaman called this manifest destiny but Taylor calls it
nuts. She doesn’t know how close you are, how we once rode
a bus together and you wanted to say hi but got scared, how
the next time we ride the 41 you’ll hold my face like the sun and say
There you are.
Blood Quantum
Lying in bed you told me we’re attracted
to the genes we want and fuck
do I ever want yours Creator gave you
those good Métis cheekbones for my babies
to inherit and for me to smooch on You’ve got
thick-ass hair and toe-thumbs I’ve got
thyroid disease adult acne a high probability
of birthing twins I want to float
through your veins on a red blood cell raft
unpack my boxes inside the curve
of your aorta sticky-tack a Buffy poster
to the arterial wall I want to duplicate myself
four times send bodies to the tips
of each of your limbs me
behind your eyes I want to see
you seeing me the parts you’ll look for
through incubator glass They say it’s colonial
to measure your blood but I’d be lying
if I said I want to tell my babies You’re Métis
but Canada says you can’t have the card Honey I’m ready to hatch
all your brown toe-thumbed kin teach them how to walk
on their hands wave thank-you to Creator with their feet
Molly Cross-Blanchard is a Métis poet living on Coast Salish territory. She is a recent graduate of the UBC Creative Writing MFA program, Poetry Editor at PRISM international, Assistant to the Executive Director at BC and Yukon Book Prizes, and author of the chapbook I Don't Want to Tell You with Rahila's Ghost Press.