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Toxic Masculinity Stew

John Louis Smith

I had my first taste when I was told
stop that crying. Little boys who cry get
in even more trouble. Other boys will point,
laugh, make up names and songs.

In the lunchroom each day after, small bowls steaming
as spoons flicked it into my face over laughter
and questions like you still like Mister Rogers? Why’re you wearing
rainbow rings? Are you gay? Are you a femmy-boy?

My force-fed snack in junior high, dumped
down my long hair, sprayed over my games, in high school shoveled
down my throat as they asked why don’t you wanna hear
about the orgy at Tammy’s? Everyone’s doing it! Why aren’t you?

College wouldn’t serve it, I thought, but they just cooked
it differently, smeared it across my lips and chin as they said
your penis makes you my oppressor, and we won’t
listen because you can’t change; be silent.

In the outside world, pear-shaped clowns threw
wads when I said I don’t follow sports, dribbled
it with an oh, come on! when I called out their jokes, spat
chunks in my ear in whispers of loser!
No need to order it, cyberspace spews
it from my screen with words like beta, cuck, simp, spatters
it from congressional Twitterverse when they proclaim
You’re not a man without guns and a monster truck.

They said I would learn to like
the taste. I never did. And I pray
a day never comes when I serve
it myself as I say stop that crying.



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