Like a Novice Reading Poetry
You whispered a vague command
to take off the labyrinth tan,
to turn this calico back to beige
or color it in all the way.
So I laughed because you didn’t understand
that skin is skin,
that solid bronze or marble,
these lungs rest in Technicolor cages
and blue blood ranges to deliver the mail.
I’m calico; only now, you can see it.