She ate all her spinach, devoured all her kale.
She lifted weights and cussed and spit, and still she wasn’t male.
She wanted to be Popeye, but instead was Olive Oyl.
Nothing that she ever did made her less a goil.
She wished on every rainbow, unequivocally,
did her affirmations and squeezed her rosary,
praying for delivery from this female form.
Because she had three brothers, she felt it not the norm.
But when she reached her teenage years, something slowly changed.
Somehow she felt more normal and slightly less deranged.
And though it took a little time, finally she did confess
shyly, to her mother, that she’d like to buy a dress.
She put her hair in curlers and scrubbed her scaly knees,
spent more time upon the phone and less time climbing trees.
Flirted with her brothers’ friends whom formerly she wrestled.
Wound up at the movies, very comfortably nestled
up against the shoulder of a guy named Paul
and found that somehow she felt great. She didn’t mind at all
that she had not been born a boy, because then she’d have missed
that feeling that she felt the very first time she was kissed.