The Talk I Have with My Son

Claire Vaye Watkins once said
her first book was written for men.
Everyone called it “unflinching.”
She said she wants to flinch.

My last fist fight was in my twenties.
Our family was collapsing as dawn held
two brothers covered in bruises
retching up roots of autumn grass.

Look: a city blooms among bees of taxis,
and every man has given up his name.
There are pictures of biceps in pastel cafes.
Baying dogs march into the sea.