I am not a man.
My model left too soon with his set of instructions.
Women are my mirrors, reflective and round.
My voice an echo of sibilant sound.
I watch the boys outside my mother's window
playing games mysterious as Mars.
Men are hard to catch
under your green shirt, your green pants,
When I pass, you light up.
emit no sissy whispers.
I'd be cold
as the boys who picked me last.