Understand
BY PAIGE RIEHL
To understand the draw of neon beer signs,
I must return to Main Street on a Friday night,
the door of Bucky’s Bar opening and the laughter
and hair band rock pouring out like sand,
like the sounds from some faraway beach.
To understand why chipped tables and plastic
pitchers make everything else seem golden, we must
return to the Corner Bar that Rocks in Moorhead
where the long-haired men stood, pool cues
lightly in hand, lifted their eyes just long enough
in my direction, that bar stool pleather
like a winning ticket between my fingers. To realize
my grandfather’s dismay when I brought home
hairsprayed rockers, we must remember he
was raised on crew cuts and ‘yessirs and drank
milk from the teat like a real man. The
modern-day “real men” of whom Grandpa
approved wore baseball hats and shaved daily
and said, I could rape you right now if I wanted
after a movie on their couch, told how
the other bitch threw around accusations
and no one believed her anyway, her reputation
ruined, her smiling photo still on the desk
like a trophy. To understand how difficult
it is to drive home when your hands are shaking
and you’re thinking about the long-haired man
who warmed your boots with his hair dryer
so your feet would be warm in the January
snow, you must return to regret and loss
and that moment of understanding about gut
instinct, the way the All American boy opened
the door for himself but not for you.
To understand the draw of neon beer signs,
I must return to Main Street on a Friday night,
the door of Bucky’s Bar opening and the laughter
and hair band rock pouring out like sand,
like the sounds from some faraway beach.
To understand why chipped tables and plastic
pitchers make everything else seem golden, we must
return to the Corner Bar that Rocks in Moorhead
where the long-haired men stood, pool cues
lightly in hand, lifted their eyes just long enough
in my direction, that bar stool pleather
like a winning ticket between my fingers. To realize
my grandfather’s dismay when I brought home
hairsprayed rockers, we must remember he
was raised on crew cuts and ‘yessirs and drank
milk from the teat like a real man. The
modern-day “real men” of whom Grandpa
approved wore baseball hats and shaved daily
and said, I could rape you right now if I wanted
after a movie on their couch, told how
the other bitch threw around accusations
and no one believed her anyway, her reputation
ruined, her smiling photo still on the desk
like a trophy. To understand how difficult
it is to drive home when your hands are shaking
and you’re thinking about the long-haired man
who warmed your boots with his hair dryer
so your feet would be warm in the January
snow, you must return to regret and loss
and that moment of understanding about gut
instinct, the way the All American boy opened
the door for himself but not for you.
Paige Riehl’s poetry and prose has been published or is forthcoming in Meridian; the Saint Paul Almanac; South Dakota Review; Nimrod; the anthology Poetry City, USA; Blood Orange Review; Literary Bohemian; Word Riot; and more. Paige recently won first place in the 2011 Literal Latte Prize for Poetry. She also was a semi-finalist for the 2011 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry sponsored by Nimrod as well as the 2011 River Styx International Poetry Contest. Paige was also a finalist for the 2011 Loft Mentor Series in Poetry in Minneapolis.