Ingredients for one

A scratch on the right thumb,

red, dirty, little;

a green earring climbing up my ear,

arched, determined, received;

a sign on the left knee,

it's violet, from that time,

on the motorbike.

Dots of little hairs,

growing black everywhere

you don’t want them

to.

A shade of lipstick

smudged, too red for teeth that hurt;

a pair of heels, all glitter,

taking you nowhere after work;

a black wrinkled line

going round your eye,

trying to be a cat.

(you’re not, though)

A final drop of orange

wine - it’s natural, pet nat,

you should try it,

on a glass that’s not

mine, yours neither .

A gazillion colored pencils

you still hope to use and not just

carry

into every house you change

pretending

to live in a home.

A brown - honey like, they tell you,

insistence you still find in your own

eyes, hiding

behind a slash of fringe - dark,

protecting forehead & thoughts

from too much sunlight

& fever lines.

A xylophone of hues

finding their way in and out

of a body

near you:

you love turquoise, but crave red, too.

It must be easy to look

so different,

throwing all this paint

in your worldview.