The day I learnt self
was once spelled selbaz I realised my lexicon was full
of fickle male lyrebirds, stealing
chainsaw refrains and shutter clicks for their mates
and that warships are she’s because
they’re grand and ineffable and because
captains are men and men
want women, even though ships
have no genitals nor lips
to protest it.

And in class we’re told that they
is too potent to be wielded
by a person alone, because subject-verb
agreement cares not for self, you’re either
he or she or error
and errors make people uncomfortable
And then we are taught to squirm
when such errors are made.

Because my card says F
and my body lies, she,
spelled from G A T C,
and they all answer, she, she, she
as if words in libraries could orchestrate the building of cities
as if Alexandria were an armoury
as if I were a ship.

Are you a girl or a boy? asks a pair of bright
pink lips. “I am a girl
a girl,” I parrot
“and I like dolls
because of my karyotype”

But I have not been able to bring myself
to wear a dress
to wear my double X
for a decade

and I’m just a liar
liar
lyrebird
speaking stolen words
but the one that lays the eggs
without his pharyngeal virtuosity.