My Gender

My gender can kick your  gender’s  ass.  My gender is flicking wet dental floss at a
wall and letting it stick. My gender is an edible at a theme park. My gender is every
college  you  almost  went to.  My gender is a mint green condom,  never used. My
gender is  donating her  bras  back to  Goodwill.  My gender is camouflage for the
wrong season. My gender is 50% off. My gender is any 11-minute Bob Dylan song.
My gender is growing a tree in my stomach for good luck.  My gender is too busy
to orgasm. My gender misses its gender. My gender is room-temperature Rolling
Rock.  My  gender  is  an  essay  on  a  book  I  haven't  read.  My  gender  is  the
autobiography of a cloud. My gender pets the dog at the party then becomes the
dog. My gender pets the dog at the party then becomes the party. My gender is a
debunked creation myth.  My gender  is a pleasure to have in class. My gender is
cleaning   out   her   mother’s   medicine   cabinet   and   keeping   the   change.

Author of the article

Robin Arble is a poet and writer from Western Massachusetts. Her poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Oakland Arts Review, Beestung, Door Is A Jar, Pøst-, One Art, Overheard, ALOCASIA, and Your Impossible Voice, among others. They are a poetry reader for Beaver Magazine and the Massachusetts Review. She studies literature and creative writing at Hampshire College.