“Why she not need love, Mommy?”

my son quizzes me from the carseat. 
Fuck I think as Kesha spill-breathes 
 
her disgust with love lit like diamonds  
over the strobe-quick beat. Unsure  
 
if I should bother with metaphor 
I decide to tell him about my high 
 
school gym teacher who labeled all 
girls Mabel. Why bother with names 
 
when we were all wannabe Mariah 
Careys? perms butterfly-clip-thick  
 
and mousse buried? Coach Dodge 
had no impetus to distinguish but  
 
love hits different—the way clouds 
canyon into shapes once you know 
 
how to focus the haze. Love breeds 
selectivity, a thirst that can only be 
 
cured by one brand though a whole 
ass mall sits at your hands. The static 
 
will pass. Melodies will razor arteries 
until you crimson into autumn, a sky  
 
leaf raw and blush sotted, but he looks 
lost so I drop it, and explain Kesha  
 
needs the same maze of day lilies and 
Richter level reciprocity as him, as me 
 
but if this world's a torch, we must be 
wind, divining where each flame ends.