We slept in every bed at Ikea,
had their Swedish meatballs for lunch,
and put our hands on all their sheets:
stitched, striped, solid, and satin—
thread counts in the highs and lows,
even pillowcases to match.
There were offices predesigned,
kitchens, dens, and lofts decorated by
a graduate from the Ikea School
of Interior Design.
There were dining tables, small and square
like the person I was becoming,
and chairs, stiff and pressed
like the penis in my husband’s pants.
In less than twenty minutes,
during an afternoon of shopping for our new place,
we went from being an interracial couple,
to a pair of medium-bristled toothbrushes
in front of a foggy mirror.