Spring Flowers
plastic pinwheels
blink in the sun
blossom in the breeze
zoom down
if you will
to the morning garden
to the gooseberry patch
3 bent figures
gloved hands taut
pull thorn & spire
hear tart globes plop
Sometimes, I like to feel as though
Most of my life
Never happened.
As though I didn’t feel bad
About my body
Before very recently.
As though I never felt a disconnect
When being called a girl
Before I began to strongly question.
I used to think that that meant
That I wasn’t
A trangender.
If I was trans,
I would be proud.
I would want proof
Of my dysphoria.
I wouldn’t want
To hide it.
When I am,
When I was,
When I get
Labeled
As a woman,
I don’t feel
Panicked.
I don’t feel
Sick enough
To be dysphoric.
Frustrated, sure.
Betrayed, sometimes.
Physically ill, occasionally.
Disappointed….
Almost always.
But not enough
For transness.
My womanness
Is like Pluto’s planetness.
I am not a woman.
I was labeled a woman,
I was called a woman,
I thought I was a woman,
For years,
For a decade
And counting,
But now,
I know it isn’t right.
It doesn’t quite fit for me.
I think
At one point
The gender lords had to
Catch up with me.
I don’t think
I could’ve gone
Much further
Without a little questioning.
The first time I questioned
Was before I even knew I was a lesbian.
I was scrolling tiktoks
And I still remember the one I saw.
It was a femininely-presenting person
Who was frustrated
Because they didn’t know
If they could truly be nonbinary
Or not.
I read the comments
Of validation
And scrolled past
Trying to ignore the mild pounding
Of my queerness
On the closet door
Of my mind.
I couldn’t ignore it forever.
Now I live
As a trans person
As a queer person
As a gay person
As myself
And,
Even through the hardships,
I try to be proud
Because,
After all,
Isn’t that what this month’s
All about?
i have chosen to acknowledge my position
the intersections that allow judgement
he said, “I met a girl”
never a woman
because this here lies a competition
one chosen for the teenage girls and the milfs
one to breed envy and beauty products
do you think they preach youth because it sells
I do
it is time to unlearn
scatter your brokenness for war
think about reproductive labor and femicide
and why masculinity is a precursor to assault
because this is more than just what we choose
you are not a flower
and even so it is not your fault
A humming of head & thorax, an assembly
line to forage leaf drop clip crush mold
combine. The youngest plod around inside the oldest
bustle about outside the smallest hitch rides
on grass & leaf while the largest pull—
a green palanquin, insect-powered.
Umber bodies form hibiscus on pavement, squirming
center, slow-rolling filament, pitchy anther—no bees hum here.
Later the rough circle narrows into a bamboo stalk
with tough stems knobby nodes occasional
branches marching in midday heat.
Under oak, honeydew slice sweats as bronzed
legs & antennae explore, then morph into a jagged gash
in its flesh, a scar that brings out its celadon glaze in evening’s
powdered blue. Then they trickle up & down rattle
acorns prowl the pulpy temple of leafy chambers
& strange symbols in cleft & furrow.
During the day, claws move in slow motion to liquid
gold beams of sun, as if ocean-bound, sway of tide, kiss of salt.
Formicidae irony—in moonlight they move quickly
scuttle lift scuttle rolling grass blades
into jade orbs, mandibles clicking time.
(From Psalm 8)
As I sit in my rocking chair and enjoy
the night sounds of tree frogs and whippoorwills,
I am reminded of how complex, how intricate
Your creation entails.
O Lord, our Lord,
how majestic
is Your name
in all the earth!
As I look up into the mountains, the lofty ridges,
every tree, every plant and creature,
I am in awe of Your plan in nature.
O Lord, our Lord,
how majestic
is Your name
in all the earth!
As I hold a child, and look onto her thumbprint,
and realize that no two are alike,
I can’t fathom the reaches of Your design.
O Lord, our Lord,
how majestic
is Your name
in all the earth!
As I read in the Sacred Scriptures, how You sent
Your Son into the world to save us from our sins,
I have trouble understanding the depth of Your love.
O Lord, our Lord,
how majestic
is Your name
in all the earth!
you attack and assault my body,
my mind, my wavering identity
you scoff at my injuries- my bruises, my scratches, my internal scars
and call me easy
you talk over me, believing in your own self-righteousness
as if you’ve never taken advantage of your “god-given authority”
i’m angry with you
for gaslighting me
for turning me into your victim
for making me feel unworthy
of being comfortable in my own body
i either resent you
or
i resent myself
Immobilized, strangled by panic, I claw
myself awake, my own voiceless scream
echoing,
I’m not dead yet!
My brain is still working!
For days, I can’t drain off my foreboding. Soon,
it will be the tenth anniversary of 9/11,
and my son’s wedding in New York City. Fear
slithers along the implications of the dream:
Our plane goes down in flames.
Subway tunnels turn black, smoke-filled.
Our hotel collapses, story by story.
I’m buried alive, entombed
with my desperate plea. Then,
sudden enlightenment, set loose by a different vision:
my mom, sedated, neatly tucked into her deathbed. Me,
seated next to her, waiting. It’s too late to ask her
if she is afraid. Not too late to enter my dreams now
and answer that question with ghostly bitterness.
This was her final reality, her agony.
This was how it ended.
And I pray these butterflies can teach me,
