yellow ochre

Without the words, I’d have to steal

enough of your time to tell you I like yellow, but

not yellow like dandelions and the sun.

More orange than yellow. Nothing blunt

or cautionary like a school bus, or

the frantic light between stop and go.

More the yellow-orange of early love and

brand new sunsets, of big-haired girls in

70s sweater dresses, of the ready Werther’s

in my grandpa’s shaky fingers.

*

Without the words, I’d have to say

I’m a girl, of course, but not like the kind with

Tampax under the sink, or one hand

above my belly and one below.

I’d have to say sure, I’m a bit like a boy, but

only in the blueprint of Xs and Ys.

I’d have to shrug and giggle at the kid question

hurled once or twice a month. Maybe

some day, I’d say, once I’m done

focusing on my career.

*

With words like ochre and intersex

in my tastebuds, in my ink, in

my fingertips and keyboard, I can

fill out a form and shop for paint.

With the right words, my thoughts and

home and ID can all look like me.

*

You tell me ochre still doesn’t cut it--

that there are as many results

as there are minds to search it, and

with the right words I can say

that’s just fine. In fact,

that’s the whole point.