Pansexual

I believe it was somewhere between the poppies and a tall glass of limeade that I first saw your face. I warped instantly into the conversation,
as most do in dreams, to find that you were fed up with this undertaking.

You had been interviewing famous lesbians about their love lives. They all stared blankly at your nondescript calves, proffering attention and facts for god only knows what. When you would ask, "Why do you choose to love women?" Everyone of them said, "I did not choose."

So you walked home, sulking. You know good and well that love is a choice, or at least that's what you've been taught. And I watched you, walking home. I was a christian who had not prayed in some time, choosing to meld with the ghosts of SDS' past, of Kent State University's Past.

You were halfway home when old Mrs. Harris from down the lane offered you a limeade for your troubles. Your energy was cool and chic, like french vanilla on bruschetta. Afterwards, you thought about your unanswered question, and cried "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!!!" all the way home.