"Quit messing with pronouns,"
she huffed.
"It's not right."
"They're my words,"
I said,
"I'll do with them as I wish."
"But God is not a she,
And time is not a...he...or whatever."
She struggled for words.
"What I mean is,
things are genderless."
"Or gendermore," I suggested.
"Like that chair supporting you...
how does she feel--
it's no easy task."
"You're so annoying!" he responded.
She snapped back:
"There, you just did it again:
you switched me from a she to a he."
"Aren't you a he, too?"
"No, I am a woman!"
"But I know you:
you are aware enough as a woman
to fearlessly appreciate
your male attributes as well."
She hesitated,
flattered by the truth of that.
"But I'm still a woman!"
He continued,
as if narrating the scene:
"...she said,
trying to maintain her feminine balance,
filled, as she hoped,
with the Mother,
the Daughter,
and the manly Holy Ghosty."
She sighed heavily:
"Let's talk about something else."
"Okay," I said.
"This beer...
he is delicious, isn't she?"
She stood up and walked into the house,
slamming the screen door.
Alone now on the porch,
he lifted and addressed
the nearly full beer:
"We so easily discount
what and whom
we classify as it."
Small bubbles,
quiet and genderfull,
drifted lazily up
from the bottom of the glass.
Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.