There’s mild comfort in order—alphabetized books,
a well-stocked bar, stacks of folded laundry
scented with lavender. When I was young
I tried to learn the constellations, their shapes
& positions, but it was bewildering, the night sky
milky with city light, the contours too abstract.
As language evolves & acquires words for colors
colors always enter in the same order: black & white,
then red, then green or yellow, & after that the other one,
yellow or green. The fifth color is always a name
for blue. An afterthought, a spectre of green—
yet how blue & nothing else are the hours at three & four a.m.
when a powdery light, sliced up by the blinds,
moves across the bed & a passing car throbs
with hiphop, something stirring & yet not wholly:
you’re in the room, in the front seat of the car
& on my arm the trace of your fingers, lozenges
of sun-warmed metal. Out the window
the weight of April darkness, the tidal swirl
of leaves already heavy on the trees; I’m here, I’m here;
My whole family assumes I’m straight and it’s like if I say anything like “wow that girl is so pretty” they’re like “you’re pretty too don’t compare yourself’ like no mom the only thing I’m comparing is the width between her legs and how well I could fit.