At Ikea choosing furniture
for my first apartment, you asked to which bed I was partial, sprawled
(but lady-like), pressing
the goose-feather pillow
to your round, pink cheeks.
We moved on, to the living rooms,
glancing at couches.
I sat in the black La-Z-Boy chair,
you chose the love-seat.
And then to the bathrooms,
you pretended to bathe in the shower,
scrubbing your cardigan-covered chest,
wrapping the shower-curtain
around your body
like a wedding-day dress—
white, wholly white—
angling your head in such a way
it resembled a veil covering your breasts.
It was this moment I chose to tell you
I preferred the twin and not the Queen.