jeans

by india southgate.

 
I bought a pair of jeans today,
At a kilo sale.
The were half as old as me and twice as wide,
But they smelled exactly like you:
Sweat, teenaged peach fuzz, semen, tobacco.
The smell of things left in memory for some time.
I wondered if they used to be yours,
But you limit yourself to browns, greys, blacks, 
Things that reflect you.
Cargos with many pockets,
One pair of jeans I used to ride,
One pair of blood spattered Gi pants,
that you thought said a lot about you,
But not wranglers.
Not my wranglers.
They say that I am modern,
That I am cosmopolitan.
'I am a woman in trousers,
Even worse; men's jeans,
Not even my size.'
More importantly, they say that I am not you. 
My masculinity means nothing to me,
Blood on my jeans means that I am strong,
Going through something unforeseen,
Experiencing strife,
Or at my worst, deeply unprepared.
Yet your masculinity means everything to you.
Blood on your jeans shows that you hurt others,
When you tear your way through their lives,
Even if just for an afternoon of tussling,
For an hour after work when everybody wants to do it.
I did not want to tussle with you,
You wear your injuries like a martyr,
Broken bones left unset,
Worn like a medal, even me.
My heart pinned above yours.
I wanted a fair fight,
A loving touch,
In fact, I never wanted to fight at all.
But you will not touch my wranglers,
and tarnish their big-pocketed glory.
They are mine to make dirty,
As I was yours.

[unpublished]

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