I cling to the difference between femme and woman

Into language I burst early
with male verbs.
Urdu demands
you gender yourself in every sentence:
Choose tha or thi. Karta or karti.
Never simply I was, I do  
but either
I do, femininely.
Or
I do, masculinely.

[Interestingly, only the present I am, is always neutral.
The verb hoon, that can sound also
like yes]

*

With verbs of aaa: tha, karta, jaata,
I was, I did, I went (masculinely)
For less than a handful of summers

Who told me I needed to be
ee: thee, kartee, jatee (femininely)—
Who ordered the surrender? 

*

The person I tha found a corner to smear red lipstick
all over my toddler skin:
head to toe, red wax and giggles.
Tried shiny white heels on feet that just
began to walk.

On the eve of the first Eid I remember,
I begged to be part of the festivity: put henna on my palms/
I too want its dark stain.  

 
*

 
A nurse draws three vials of my blood
and the doctor tuts: ‘elevated testosterone’

In medical-speak I am compliant:
take androgen blockers.

I watch my face in a magnifying mirror
and for my downy beard, my mustache,
I buy a straight razor.

*

There are other ways: my friends’ grace
of hot wax,
or the delicacy of salon workers’ fingers
wrapped in thread
but I like
this futile assurance.

Nothing happened to me
I did it to myself:

Look at who I carve out
every day with a blade.

*

Even grammar is reassuring: hoon [am] sounds like ‘yes’ but also my heart.
“There she is” 
But yes, there I am,
hoon, hoon, hoon.