No one messes with Texas,
and you should know that,
in case your instinct is right.

“They wouldn’t like me in Texas,”
You said that, and I dismissed
it because they like me, and
that’s rule number two: flattery
will get you everywhere, from
the airport straight to my bed.

And you should know that
was legalized four months before
I was born. Down south,
we say “Come and take it,”
like the button you touched
on my skirt, shiny and pink.

And you should know that
I am sorcerer and a femme
and willing to break a nail,

if it meant they didn’t
come and take you
from my heart in Texas.

On some real butch-femme shit,
I’d work seven days a week,
if no one hired you,
yell back at spectators
if they gave us trouble,
and send it back, ten-fold.

We could plant fields
of lavender, you’ll see
if you squint.

And you should know that.