He likes lace—the way skin shows through
no matter the color—a kind of unnatural
camo.

The permanent She, the human She
is inconsolable.

The alien asks questions to puzzle piece the grief.

Her face is a storm
cloud and She can’t formulate.

It’s no secret. No matter the pronoun, he is neither
a he nor a she.

Her mind on spin cycle:
I wanted androgyny—male androgyny. This house doesn’t need
another woman.

The alien doesn’t understand her despair.
It’s only a costume
swap, a different role to play.

Normally tears fascinate
but there are so many her lids start to swell.

She’s always been attracted to the aliens, tall and lean
and open.

This one became more
than a fling, when he showed up in a suit and tie
to her father’s funeral.

After hours in separate rooms and thought, a try
at explanation:

You know, I was content being a He, until I lived
with your She.

I understand your reasons. Sometimes I wish I was a man.
Sometimes neither
is enough. But what about you
and me?         And what about me?