05.21.87

a friend with

synesthesia

told me my

name was

the colour

of saturday.

in my head,

it's tangerine;

like a popsicle,

like the

poppies

growing

in the liquor

store lot

off 82nd.

i imagine

it's like

the stripe

on my cat's

back, his

body an

extension

of mine. it's

bright like

the cipralex

bottle i take

from every

morning. it’s

familiar like

the thick

shag carpeting

the family

cabin, the

gel pen

still sparkling

in old entries,

the tart

apricot

squares

you used

to bake.

when walt

whitman

published

song of

myself, it

was called

trashy, its

self-praise

profane.

what are

you? he

asks - then

attempts the

impossible.

today is

my birthday,

and growing

older makes

this question

less un-

comfortable.

which

is to say,

i am ok with

1. not always

knowing,

2. saturdays

without plans,

3. being

many things

at once.