a new definition of gender

sometimes i eat a dictionary to feel
like i have control over language 
& that it doesn't control me.
once i saw a stop sign blooming.
it came the size of a clover. a little
whisper, "stop." my brother texts me
in the middle of the night when neither
of us have genders. i still remember when
i came out to him over the phone
on a drive home from somewhere 
made of glass. if someone gave me a pen
& told me to write a new definition
of gender i would probably start with
sound. cucumber & corn hush.
there seem to always be another flock
of geese passing over my house & leaving
love letters to the chickens. i had a partner
once say that i sounded like a bucket
of plums spilling out on tot he ground.
when i was born a doctor gave me 
a gender in a little envelop like you might
receive a bill. i did not open
the envelop. instead there are spotlights.
bleachers. a microphone. no one is
using any of them. maybe a gender is
a place you go & cover your face. the stocks. 
no one is unashamed of being seen
in full color. i miss the old instagram filters.
i miss the way my gender curled up
like a caterpillar. soon the ground will freeze
& all the frogs will go to sleep. i put my gender
in a takeout container (the horrible 
plastic kind) & tuck it into the vegetable death
drawer of the refrigerator. 
i am everything i say that i am.