I Wanted to be a Boy

I wanted to be a boy like God or Joe Namath, Batman or John Denver –

not like Craig who pushed me facedown and shoved snow in my shirt.

I wanted to be a boy who played hockey, drove for Budget Rent-a-Car,

rode motorcycles like my brothers – not like Suzanne’s brother who held me

under water at the local pool, not like the lifeguard who looked away.

I wanted to fly to the moon, anchor the news, drive taxis and buses,

make money at the GM factory, host The Price is Right, be a rock star –

I stuffed rolled up socks down my pants, checked myself in the mirror,

pressed my mouth against my thumb and forefinger pretending to kiss a girl.

I wanted to be a boy who knew about horses like the guys on Bonanza,

was as smart as Columbo, as cute as Donny Osmond or David Cassidy

because Jeannie had to go back into her bottle when Tony said so,

Samantha had to answer to Darin, and Edith was Archie’s dingbat.

I wanted to be a boy like my father who took the time after dinner

to show me where Russia was in the atlas, explaining that people

are naturally competitive, and therefore communism would never work,

not like when he fought with my mother late at night, calling her a stupid bitch.

Not like the high school boys who named me Lezzy and Liver Lips,

not like Barry whose nail-bitten dirty fingers pushed their way inside me,

not like the senator’s son who forced me to have sex with him in his hotel room.

I wanted to be a boy who could work as a sailor, or a pilot, or an inventor –

not like Charles Manson or Jim Jones, not like God, who made me a girl.