Megan J. Arlett

Let us appreciate him
through the lens of a fish tank’s blue and
flares behind him in the sky
as the lifeboat descends and
dazing across the bay at the green light.
Always at some kind of distance,
always intimately unavailable. 
Let us appreciate and support
his appreciation and support
of the Scandinavian modeling industry.
Once, I was a girl
in a girl’s body the way DiCaprio
was an aviator, a fur trader,
a boy climbing the water tower above town.
It’s all an act. A fantasy.
Let us remember the way 
he wears a tux just as much 
as his lack of self-critique 
when he posts about wetlands and biodiversity
from the third floor balcony
of a megayacht. 
Let us recognise “dad bod” as another
crystallization of sexism. 
Let us appreciate my unfailing devotion
to average white men, the way they rise
like bubbles in a glass of champagne
lofted in a toast to their own hubris.
I want to know
where’s my Golden Globe for smiling?
I want to cry so bright
it would make a star of my throat.