Inuit Girl

Perhaps, I need an Inuit girl
from the deep of Greenland.
One who isn’t material,
who doesn’t TiVo Jersey Shore
and drool over celebrities and wealth.
A girl who values a warm heart
and cold fish.
Not beef and a bank account.

Who prefers the beat of my heart
to the thump of G bass.
Not one who adores the brutish hulk,
the asshole, brawn over brains—
one who favors a partner to an owner;
holding hands to a leash; books to TV;
New York to LA;
a warm bath to Black Friday.
One who has never been to a mall,
or to a shoe store. One who would
use a heel for an icepick rather than to
walk around like a praying mantis
complaining of how badly her feet hurt.
One who isn’t ashamed of herself,
who doesn’t weigh herself, or gaze
into mirrors in dread for what
other men or women may think of her.
One who doesn’t think of other men.
She would prefer a small apartment
in the city, or a cabin in the woods
with a fireplace and a dog, to a mansion
with maids and pool boys.
Prefer a Toyota to a Porsche.
I don’t want a replacement or
to be replaced. I want to be Mt. Rushmore.
I want one who cares what I think,
who believes what I say,
smiles more than she frowns and
never whores for affection
the way they do when they’re so
hurt and so soon—YOLO.
I should pack my things and go,
relocate to the Arctic
while there is still some ice and good souls.
To never be disappointed by
Walmart women in Victoria’s Secret bras
and nude stilettos,
waiting with their cell phones
for the next opportunity to text.
Those who wear no underwear for the chance
they may bump into Magic Mike
or Pauly D in a coffee shop.
This is how I say goodbye
and how I say hello in Inuit.