Confession of Gender

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
People always seem to think I am like them, but
how can I be? There are so many of them! Cup
the feminine in one hand; clench weapons that cut
in the other. Play at mock battles with the boys;
at the quilting bee, chatter and stitch with the girls.
I’m not faking it, no pretense — both give me joys.
Do I love dragonflies or bees? Burls or pearls?
What am I? What am I? A rainbow reflection
from a prismatic sign, or an oil slick. Mist blurs
the moon’s edges. Cross the bridge in both directions.
Look into my smart mirror. Behind it brilliance whirs
and spins, unimagined, shifting. What will I be?
Neither fish nor fowl nor fair red meat, but all three.