Crush

Nature is funny. She gives tiny iron fillings to pigeons,

So that they can navigate, by knowing in their beaks

Which way is magnetic north, those two annoying poles,

North and south, feminine and masculine, how to find

Their way home again. I rub my nose, hoping my fingers

Will turn red with rust, but they never do. I turn right

 

And left, hoping that one way will feel more right

Or left than the others, but somehow, all I feel is

Dizzied. I suddenly realize that, before this moment,

I have never truly turned south before. My tongue

Speaks northern languages: French, the language

Of love, Japanese, the language of sacrificing yourself

 

In battle, and English, the language this woman speaks

With no accent until she is tired or perhaps has had

One pink drink too many. Her eyes are dark, polished

Oak and her grin like the full moon on a dark night.

I must focus on my work. The moon pulls at the tides,

Distracting them from reaching their usual shores.

O! The Hypocrisy!

No, alas, I am not talking about our dreadful election year. I am speaking of myself. I was on the train this morning and I saw a tall, thin young man with a beard and hair down past his shoulders. I immediately thought that if I saw him from behind I would assume he was a woman–the reverse of what happens to me at least once every week or two. I wondered what the appeal of long hair was. Part of this is because I had long hair for a bout a year or two and it was a Total Pain to take care of and you shed everywhere. I thought he would look better with a shorter haircut.

All of these thoughts probably took no more than a minute. Then I caught myself.

Argh! Argh! Argh!

So apparently, although I say I like androgyny, what I really like is for everyone to look masculine? How torqued is that? Does this mean I am walking around mindlessly privileging the masculine over the feminine? Bad feminist! Go stand in the corner!