My Husbands
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My Husbands

Mark Cugini

for Masterpiece Cakeshop
In a dandelion field in Testaccio
with a mango in my anus,
I am charging straight men
to talk to me. Little interest
is taken in the light on my loafers,
but they have many a question: what is a
pronoun? how is moisturizing? what is it called
when two men intertwine their pensises, like snakes
on the medical Bracelet? Where can I go to smell
really good but not like, in a gay way? Why are you
crying?
None of these men are my
lovers, yet all of them feel
begrudgingly responsible for
providing me with effeminate
Doritos and this, dear idiot,
is how I know that each one of them
has come to be my husband.
As decreed by the Catechism of the Catholic
Church this version of matrimony
is not dependent on consent between two heterosexual adults
but on how icky my queer ass finds spiders.
My husbands wear tube socks when they underseason
their meat. My husbands smell terrible because they think wiping
their ass will make them you gay. My husbands are horrible at experiencing
empathy for anyone's whose genitalia does not match the size,
width, and girth of their own genitalia. Somehow they
are even worse at Math. Please make sure your seat backs &
tray tables are in their full upright position, for my husbands
are watching Storage Wars & I am cleared
for ejaculate. I make my husbands stand for the flag,
but only if the flag is a picture of Anna Wintour
sitting next to Russell Westbrook & Lous Althusser’s ghost at the Rag &
Bones 2014 New York Spring Fashion Week Show & the anthem is
“The Anthem (Part 2)” by American rock band Blink 182 because a
thing I am wont to tell my husbands is “if we're fucked up, you're
to blame.” My husband is the wage gap. My husband is the
wedding cake. My husband is a dear carcass & when he makes
it into heaven he'll be sentenced to an eternity of giving Anthony Scalia
a rim job. Listen, I don’t make the rules here; Like Jesus said in the book of
Leviticus, “I'm not saying, I'm just saying.