Benjamin Anthony Rhodes
You should listen to Backwoods Barbie before you read this poem
I don't think Dolly Parton would approve
of how I treat my knockers, squished flat,
not thrust out and rhinestone studded.
She's never claimed across-the-board authority
on tits, I mean, she could with those bazoongas,
but something tells me Dolly doesn't like it
when the men who climb on top of her
have yabos that hang down in her face
and jiggle with each thrust, the stud
squishing his body flat again afterwards by way
of a nylon vest. But Dolly's a married woman
and doesn't approve of being a sex symbol
so I apologize. I'm used to being slack-jaw-smitten
by the stacked wigs of staged ladies, faces painted
for the gods, dresses glittering with rhinestones,
Johnsons hidden and squished flat by special panties.
I love us, the folks who make a show of their reality,
shake their asses and wink at any disapproval,
thrust out their chests to meet the stones.
I don't think Dolly Parton would approve
of how I treat my knockers, squished flat,
not thrust out and rhinestone studded.
She's never claimed across-the-board authority
on tits, I mean, she could with those bazoongas,
but something tells me Dolly doesn't like it
when the men who climb on top of her
have yabos that hang down in her face
and jiggle with each thrust, the stud
squishing his body flat again afterwards by way
of a nylon vest. But Dolly's a married woman
and doesn't approve of being a sex symbol
so I apologize. I'm used to being slack-jaw-smitten
by the stacked wigs of staged ladies, faces painted
for the gods, dresses glittering with rhinestones,
Johnsons hidden and squished flat by special panties.
I love us, the folks who make a show of their reality,
shake their asses and wink at any disapproval,
thrust out their chests to meet the stones.
"Is that one of them marijuana cigarettes?"
Dolly Parton asks me in the parking lot
of the Waffle House.
Yes ma'am, it is, I say back. I'm
smoking in the bed of my red Ford pickup, my boots
on the mat, my butt on the side railing.
You wouldn't mind if I took a hit
or two, would you?
She flashes a smile at me with her hands
behind her back, leaning forward ever slightly,
not minding if I peek at the rhinestone
buttons on her shirt.
No ma'am, it would be my pleasure,
I offer her my arm to climb up.
Thank you kindly, cowboy, she says.
The moon beams overhead. The yellow neon
of the Waffle House sign glows against
our backs. One of the F's and the S are dark.
We pass the joint between us.
We're silent for the first few tokes, then she asks me,
You reckon in Heaven we'll always feel like this –
sort of floaty and light, and peaceful in the company
of strangers?
She waits for me to answer, but I don't.
You reckon–she exhales and passes –
that there'll be all the food you could eat just a few feet
away? Not just hashbrowns and sausage,
but chitlins and stir fry and ice cream and caviar,
and Hell, I don't even like caviar,
that just shows how good this marijuana is.
She laughs then, rocking back and forth a little,
with a light slap to her knee.
The pitch starts high and shoots higher, a vocal two-step
that jerks the pit of my stomach to my ears.
She must see that I'm blushing when I take my hit
and pass it. She pumps up the back of her hair
and sighs, her pink fingernails almost hiding the roach.
Now come on, she says and bumps against
my shoulder. What about you?
I tear my eyes away from her and look up.
Lots of stars.
I don't think Heaven is anything like we imagine,
I say with my chin still lifted.
I've read some about Buddhism and to them,
death is like taking off a tight shoe.
Our body goes away, our thoughts, too, so
we imagine that life ends, cause
what is life if you don't have a body, if
you aren't thinking? But then,
like, what about mushrooms? What about
trees? They're alive. They can feel
pain. They speak to each other and share
water, sugar through their roots.
Do they go to Heaven? No one seems to
think so. I pull my eyes back
down, turn and see if I've lost her.
She's leaning toward me just a bit.
A group of people walk out of the restaurant
sounding happy, like they were
drunk before they ate. I don't know, I say,
I really don't know and I can't even take
a guess. The joint all smoked,
silence passes between us, one that lets me
know Ms. Parton won't settle
for a lukewarm answer. Air decompresses
from my body like a beach ball
unstoppered and squeezed. I guess
I just hope that when we get
to wherever it is that we go after this,
we can recognize the people
we love who are already there. I hope
in some way, we can embrace.
Dolly smiles softly, rests her hand
on top of mine.
You know what, cowboy? she asks, leaning closer.
I think you got me hoping for that, too.
Dolly Parton asks me in the parking lot
of the Waffle House.
Yes ma'am, it is, I say back. I'm
smoking in the bed of my red Ford pickup, my boots
on the mat, my butt on the side railing.
You wouldn't mind if I took a hit
or two, would you?
She flashes a smile at me with her hands
behind her back, leaning forward ever slightly,
not minding if I peek at the rhinestone
buttons on her shirt.
No ma'am, it would be my pleasure,
I offer her my arm to climb up.
Thank you kindly, cowboy, she says.
The moon beams overhead. The yellow neon
of the Waffle House sign glows against
our backs. One of the F's and the S are dark.
We pass the joint between us.
We're silent for the first few tokes, then she asks me,
You reckon in Heaven we'll always feel like this –
sort of floaty and light, and peaceful in the company
of strangers?
She waits for me to answer, but I don't.
You reckon–she exhales and passes –
that there'll be all the food you could eat just a few feet
away? Not just hashbrowns and sausage,
but chitlins and stir fry and ice cream and caviar,
and Hell, I don't even like caviar,
that just shows how good this marijuana is.
She laughs then, rocking back and forth a little,
with a light slap to her knee.
The pitch starts high and shoots higher, a vocal two-step
that jerks the pit of my stomach to my ears.
She must see that I'm blushing when I take my hit
and pass it. She pumps up the back of her hair
and sighs, her pink fingernails almost hiding the roach.
Now come on, she says and bumps against
my shoulder. What about you?
I tear my eyes away from her and look up.
Lots of stars.
I don't think Heaven is anything like we imagine,
I say with my chin still lifted.
I've read some about Buddhism and to them,
death is like taking off a tight shoe.
Our body goes away, our thoughts, too, so
we imagine that life ends, cause
what is life if you don't have a body, if
you aren't thinking? But then,
like, what about mushrooms? What about
trees? They're alive. They can feel
pain. They speak to each other and share
water, sugar through their roots.
Do they go to Heaven? No one seems to
think so. I pull my eyes back
down, turn and see if I've lost her.
She's leaning toward me just a bit.
A group of people walk out of the restaurant
sounding happy, like they were
drunk before they ate. I don't know, I say,
I really don't know and I can't even take
a guess. The joint all smoked,
silence passes between us, one that lets me
know Ms. Parton won't settle
for a lukewarm answer. Air decompresses
from my body like a beach ball
unstoppered and squeezed. I guess
I just hope that when we get
to wherever it is that we go after this,
we can recognize the people
we love who are already there. I hope
in some way, we can embrace.
Dolly smiles softly, rests her hand
on top of mine.
You know what, cowboy? she asks, leaning closer.
I think you got me hoping for that, too.
It's All Wrong, But It's Alright
It's a cruel joke that the first thing we do
after dying is shit ourselves. If I was
Dolly Parton, I might say something like "That's just
God's funny little way of welcoming us to Heaven –
with a roll of Charmin in His Hands." If I was
Dolly Parton, I'd have more rhinestones in my closet
and I wouldn't want to cut off my breasts.
It's a cruel joke that the first thing we do
after dying is shit ourselves. If I was
Dolly Parton, I might say something like "That's just
God's funny little way of welcoming us to Heaven –
with a roll of Charmin in His Hands." If I was
Dolly Parton, I'd have more rhinestones in my closet
and I wouldn't want to cut off my breasts.
Benjamin Anthony Rhodes is a queer and trans poet living in Northeast Ohio, where he is a poetry candidate with the NEOMFA. Born and bred on the bayou, Benjamin hails from Louisiana and received his BA in English from the University of Louisiana at Monroe. His work can be found in Luna Negra and ode to Queer.