The Visible Spectrum
We make out in my grandma’s old Buick,
her button down, half buttoned down.
I’m trying to stop looking so straight.
Chop my hair so short my stepdad hates it.
The strangers walking by the fogged window
know more about me than my father.
At home, I search Etsy for rainbows.
Inventory my flannel. Wonder how I got like this,
so greedy. I’d dip my fingers into
any pot of gold which is to say any body
is wantable. Any button worth slipping through
any buttonhole like an eye, trying to see itself.
In the car, I come out to my grandma.
She says she didn’t really need to know.
But I did. Need her to know
how I’ll be telling this secret forever,
lipsticking it onto mirrors, spitting it
at men in bars.
Something about wearing mascara
means windows can only steam
when there’s a man inside, breathing.
But the men on that street know better,
glimpsed my lips on her neck and then
me, fingering the windshield clean,
winking off into the clear eye of the night.