The other half of the rainbow

Some days,

I feel like a milder Medusa – straight

men who look at my green hair turn

long-sighted, only able to see the blurry

silhouette of a woman on which to pin

the tale of their expectations.

For years,

I’ve been wearing my rainbow

heart on my flannel sleeves,

yet they still assume

there’s a position in my life

open for their applications.

At the other end of the prism,

queer women can only see

what I am just in front of them.

When they swipe right on my 5’8

broad-shouldered profile, they imagine

my sometimes rock-climbing arms

holding them tight through the night –

little do they know my body’s favourite

shape is the smallest of spoons.

The way my short hair fades

into home-bleached experiments

gives tunnel vision to femme lesbians

who fancy finding a tough butch.

My femininity always turns out to be

the plot twist that nobody expected.

It sounds like the laughter of

a girl I was once dating the day

she discovered the assortment

of nail polish in my closet –

a base of shimmering surprise

with a top coat of confusion.

The shades my body wears –

blue knees, scarlet scraped skin,

bike grease black fingers –

create blind spots even in

my girlfriend’s most tender vision.

The day I decided to wear

a dress on our anniversary date,

nervous as if it were the first,

the fluster red of the fabric

spilled over onto her cheeks,

as she had to double take me in.

With time,

I’m learning

the patience

to wait

for people

to adjust

their focus –

after all, most of us can only

ever see half

of a rainbow

even though it is a full circle.