In the hen-yard, Gonzo chases purple girls but you keep
your eyes one colour. He can’t understand it; you feel the same
each time. Every white feather feels like a white feather.

Bored, they want us to be different girls. I push the circle
of Levonelle through foil; he rubs the stitching of the steering
wheel. He asks me if I can believe the pharmacist thought

we were teenagers. No, I can’t, because you’re pushing forty
and I didn’t even look sixteen when I was. We get it. Love
is a problem, a red scarf wrapped around your mouth.

When he was young, you were a ragdoll, only living
when he let you. I’m watching him read the instructions.
Perhaps he’s a scientist and I’m the petri dish.

We go to bed on an empty floor. Forget you. I swallow hard
feel every sharp microgram. His whole body is blue and alien.
Even Wikipedia is in on the joke, on not really knowing what he is.