when a couple in the supermarket stops me in my stroller

at the sight of a beaming six-month-old

they do not place bets on the number of boys who will drown

in my turquoise eyes. instead they tell my mothers

what a lovely dyke i’ll make. how well

my jaw structure will compliment a pixie cut. my sisters & i play Barbies

& do not fight over who is stuck playing Ken. who must be

the dud dad doll in our heterosexual matrix of a Dreamhouse.

this is to say we do not have to be the things we are not.

we do not have to want the things we do not want.

all the contestants on the Bachelorette are lesbians.

there are 14 engaged couples at the season finale. i do not watch

Miley Stewart choose between Jesse & Jake. i do not watch

Rory Gilmore choose between Dean & Logan &

every other white boy in the state of Connecticut.

my first kiss is Rae sipping lemonade in her Fisher Price playhouse

when we are four years old. my first kiss is Rae in a Sleeping Beauty dress

& it feels right to kiss someone

who looks like me. years later i do not wait to kiss

Isabelle from soccer team or

Alex from theatre camp or

Molly the church choir pianist. instead

we make-out between goal posts &

there are turf pellets in my French braids. instead

our tongues twirl in the costume closet &

there are hickies beneath my stage makeup. instead

we trade spit behind stained glass &

my best dress smells like incense.

i do not hide their traces.

i do not hide at all.