New York Times Headline Jan. 9, 2018

Hetero, cis, old, she.
My world a jumble
with they them ze.
My tongue tangles,
my brain refuses
to reassemble, stumbles,
even if I try, I fall. Don’t tell me,
I will I won’t call you what you ask,
I want to and still
my tongue trips. Mx, hir, xem.
Does everyone know this
but me?

I look for clues: hips,
hair, hands, boy or girl.
Harder to tell now
but I try to guess.
Not my business.
Another’s anatomy.
Who knows how they know
themselves to be. But I
see only two boxes.

My friend: tall, short hair, men’s pants
work boots. Do you go by
they/them I say, so cool
No, she/her. I don’t wear the pants
in the family. If a mouse
crossed my path
I’d jump into your arms.
I’ve met her partner
all soft and curly—
goes by they/them.
My friend, I can’t un-him her yet.

And the new member
of our women’s retreat. I tried
so hard to say they/
them/their and all week I
screwed it up. I see their
half-shaved hair, knickers and
knee socks but still sense them
as she. We are a woman’s
group after all. How many times did I label
̶h̶e̶r̶ by my definition, not ̶h̶e̶r̶s̶ theirs.

What If I am she/her
and you always refer to me as It. It
looked great last night. Give it a hug for me.
Every time my body says NO, She/her. It’s not
me.      I’m beginning to see. 

My grandson’s sex ed class taught 39
genders, Facebook offers 58.
Gender queer, gender-expansive…

And I, narrow
crammed
into a corner
out of habit.
Maybe
I too am more than She.

Can I open
my arms to them,
 to me?