Tonight's Poet Corner: A Brode To José

A Brode To José
by Belinda Roddie

This is the ode I've always wanted
to write for one of my bros, because the last
time I did something like this, it was in
high school, and my romance-addled friends
all insisted it was due to a laboring crush
pressed into my veins like stardust. Infatuation

is irrelevant here, but honestly, I feel
like, since some countries have phased
out their pennies, there's room for a new
term to be coined: The ever artful and
articulate brode: Shorthand for bro ode. So.

This is the brode to my best bro, a broship
nearly eleven years sailing. Aboard are a short
and stout teapot of a dyke and a sloppy bearded
Valhallan who taught me how to fight
with a sword and also how to handle
both my mead and my tequila.

This is the brode to all the times we've
improvised songs, scaled walls, and
forgotten what it meant to grow old. This
is the brode to classic video game consoles, to
bathroom jokes, to grainy black pepper and
tapatío mixed into salsa because it still
wasn't spicy enough for our liking. This

is the brode to how it felt to sell our souls
for guitar strings, thrift store jackets, fantasy books,
and the best goddamn burritos in town. To
how many times we laughed, and all the panels
of inked pages you drew in honor of jam
sessions and melee matches on Game Cube. You
always managed to make Ganondorf your bitch.

This is the brode to the nights we walked past quads
and dark marble busts, searching for an outlet
to plug our sins into, and through symphonies,
we were saved. To all the reminders you gave
me that the rainbow birthmark on my face
wasn't a trespass to begin with. To morning
milkshakes, homemade during heat waves, and
late night dinners that were always so,
unbelievably fucking spicy. Even the salads,

dude. This is the brode to the joy we found
in compact discs and vinyl records, buoyed
by chords we were still perfecting with
sweating and callused fingers, and to the lyrics
we sang so loudly that we grew hoarse before
the gig our band had booked even started. This is

the brode to our musical marathons on car
stereos, from heavy metal to folk. We discovered
what it meant to run in Russian Circles, rocked
wagon wheels and rode southbound trains, broke
the Boards of Canada and avoided the splinters,
freed the Castle Town Convicts from chains,
and sometimes, even paid attention to the Floyd.

José, this brode is to the day we met and the day I asked
for your phone number and your full name, and when
you groaned and said, "Guess," I knew you were
far more than just generic, García. You were the bro I had
always dreamed I'd breathe life into like an imaginary
friend, only that friend turned out to be self-proclaimed
hairy and ornery and just plain goofy. José, you are
the Brosé to my Brolinda, the peppermint
schnapps to my hot cocoa, the popping bass
to my vocals, the ghost pepper to my chili,

the illustrations to my poetry about breakfast
ninjas - yes, that was a thing - the directional
pad to my Nintendo controller, the butterbeer
to my Harry Potter cosplay before Rowling cast

Petrificus TERFtalus, the zebra patterned

amp to my Epiphone Dot, and most importantly,
the microphone to my unfiltered unreason.

José, this is to every walk and ride where we
cried over baggage but still were strong enough
to lug it over our shoulders. To when we kissed
bottles but always knew when to pull our lips
away. To candid hymnals in both Spanish
and English, even though our language
was more complex than words. José,
this is the brode I've been dying to write you
for over a decade: Ever since you became

my college roommate in the dying Orange
County sunset. Ever since you were
my best man at my gray suit, yellow
roses, chilled champagne wedding. Ever
since you drove nine hours for my thirtieth
birthday just so we could bond over garlic fries,
miniature golf, and the timeless and classic

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles before catching up
over chicken wings. This brode is to you
because I am so grateful for how much you've
helped me as an adult, yet simultaneously,
you've taught me never to let go of my childish whims.

Bro, this brode is so deep, man, I could just
conclude it by kissing you right on the mouth:
But that'd be way too hetero, so I'll pass on that.
I'll end it instead with the simple affection
that all homies share in a fist bump, though
I know we're not afraid to hug it out when
we feel like it: Te quiero, tío. Paz fuera.