Gender Fender Bender

Our cars kissed bumpers

and in my rear-view mirror  you

looked like a boy, banging your

shorn head on the steering wheel, and you

looked like a boy when you

wrenched open my door to rant that I’d

stopped too quickly, all sweatshirt,

torn jeans and attitude, and you

certainly fucked like a boy in that

convenient motel, your aggression

taking me aback as you took me,

rode me, swallowed me, so that

it was only when your contented breath

ruffled my chest hair that your

girlness seeped out as you slept.