The Rules
by Rose Paulson
If you wear a dress I’ll wear a dress.
If I go to the bathroom you will follow.
If you give a presentation I’ll throw you a softball.
If it can’t be changed in five minutes
you won’t tell me what’s wrong. If you ride horses
I will pretend I am interested in horses.
When you invite me to your competition I will tell you
my dad has the car that day, and you will let me lie.
When my brother asks if you are a horse girl now
I will say no, shut up, the whole concept of horse girls
is misogynistic. Why’s he so afraid of a woman
who tames a wild beast? I won’t repeat this.
I know what you would say. Not everything is about
feminism, Rose. And it’s not. But we are so good
at rules we make our own. We marvel at how little we need.
No cuffed jeans. No bangs. No meat. No boys
who can’t identify poison ivy because could you imagine
how embarrassing? No boys who can’t play chess.
Who can’t drive. Who can’t swim. Who wear socks with sandals.
Most importantly—no boys who won’t let us paint
their nails. Even just once. Manhood is a trap
from which we refuse to save anyone.
Remember when you punched me at the Half Price?
The cashier’s jaw went slack when he saw my grin.