Light Blue

I am not pink on the outside.

I am light blue

like the color of the first pillow

my mother gave me

that I took to preschool

and carried off to college

like the sky where I learned

how to fly a small airplane

with my grandpa who had to die

before I could say aloud

that I am bisexual

like the first guayabera I bought

in the Yucatan that was too sheer

to wear with an undershirt

which made me feel sultry

like my eyes that would pierce

the world more fiercely

on a woman’s face

with a little mascara

like the glow at the bottom

of a fire which means

I got it hot enough to burn

for a long time

like the rain that kisses my bald spot

while I’m swimming in a lake

in late December

like the turquoise jewelry

I buy my wife

for her birthday

like the ocean

whose goddess

I was named after

like the covers of books

authored by men

who sometimes wear lipstick

like the bleached out jeans

I wore in the nineties

when I was so frightened

that someone would call me queer

like the sad girl with glasses

who lives in my mind

and holds my hand

when I can’t write any poetry

like the case I got for my phone

with pink edges that spread

as the blue peels off.