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The day I tried on your brassiere you laughed.
“How about some panty­hose? A tam­pon?“
But soon, apply­ing all the hard-​earned craft
Of wom­an­hood, you put your girl­ish stamp on
My clothes, my hair, the color of my cheeks,
And proudly cried, “My God! You’re beau­ti­ful!
Now let’s rehearse the way a woman speaks:
Higher octaves, dear, and lower deci­bels.“

Emas­cu­lat­ing? Slightly. I don’t mind.
You have exquis­ite taste in lin­gerie.
And silk is smooth, how­ever it might bind.
Besides, you grow so pas­sion­ate with play

That soon enough I’m naked and can ten­der,
Undis­guised, the trade­mark of my gender.

(ori­ig­nally pub­lished in Light Quarterly)