New Orleans Type o’ Love

Bruised knuckles brushing against necks,

thin skin where bone meets muscle,

a Jack Daniels wrapped around your finger tips,

while you lower yourself deeper into the cushions,

chest to chest to skin to wife beater,

white cotton stretching farther than it should,

stained black by tar and mud from

a factory you’ve never visited —

Marlon Brando with a chipped tooth,

no greasy blond hair to frame my face

when I bite, something ‘bout a feral dog you wanna train,

but no leash that’ll fit around my collar,

leather straps tugging at your conscience,

‘cause how you gonna hold me in

when I haven’t settled down?

Baby blue, look how I’m straining

for your hands back,

that sing-song morning breakfast and silent dinner,

you know that I like you sitting, hushed up laundry before I get home

with a side of bacon fried on the outdoor grill I got for your birthday,

oil dripping from the tabletop you gotta bend down to wipe.

Girl, you know you like me hitting at the bathroom door,

raising my voice ‘cause it makes you feel wanted,

nice and pretty in the house I pay for,

feel how much love I got to give and don’t be selfish,

nails scratching at your face like you lost your goddamn mind,

know I’ll pull them off you if you let me,

and ain’t I handsomer than Marlon Brando?

Ana Valdarrama Lemus ‘24

I've been thinking a lot about Marlon Brando recently. Not as a person or anything about him, just the star power that comes with his name. Everyone knows what you mean when you use him as an allusion.