2 duffel bags
2 sets of twin sheets, 3 bath towels
You will be away for a month.
sleeping bag, 3 bathing suits
I was never so brave.
stamps, cards, envelopes
I will write you.
fan, flashlight
Please write
me.
2 sets of twin sheets, 3 bath towels
You will be away for a month.
sleeping bag, 3 bathing suits
I was never so brave.
stamps, cards, envelopes
I will write you.
fan, flashlight
Please write
me.
Water pours from the faucet, into the pot.
It’s not ice yet, but it’s very cold.
It’s almost like the motion of flowing from one place to the next,
Is the only thing keeping it from becoming solid.
You learned in your science class that ice is a crystal.
It’s like a precious gem.
It’s frozen in a simple shape,
That is so beautiful,
That people who work all day long,
Spend the money they earn just to hold it in their hands.
Unlike precious gems, ice is impermanent.
Ice is just another kind of water,
Sometimes water freezes solid, but water is always flowing,
Moving.
It never stops changing from one thing to the next.
You set the pot on top of a flame.
The pot heats up, until it’s so hot, you don’t dare touch it, for fear of being burnt.
Then the water jumps up into the air,
And it’s caught by the wind.
You were never the kind of kid who jumps in puddles,
But you were always like the water.
You live in a world that’s made up of days,
Each moment is a gem, but each day is a river.
Today, you sail in a boat, that floats on a river,
And you let the wind carry you,
Until the day in your world fades to night, and you look up at the stars.
You think about how each of those stars is the source of a day.
Then, day is just a word.
When you come home, you make a paper boat.
Then, you’re a kid again, and you sail on puddles which become as big as an ocean,
But you never stomp in them.
You don’t see the end of the street as an obstacle.
Beyond the paved road is a muddy green field,
And between the grass and the asphalt,
You watch the rainwater collect in a puddle.
Slowly, it seeps into the ground, or clings to your shoes, or returns to the clouds.
The water has its own way of playing,
Just like you and your friends play in the field.
I am still living the question of gender.
For over a decade
after coming out to myself as trans,
I identified as bi-gender.
Partly because I had to.
I didn’t think
I could ever transition.
When I first discovered
my inner girl,
I felt sad.
I knew she would always be
a hidden room in my house.
She mostly lived online.
She would come out
at pride festivals
and retreats
and private parties.
About two years ago,
during a conversation
with a friend,
I finally admitted
I don’t want to live in
the closet forever.
I want to be free
to be myself,
to wear what I want to wear,
to not have to hide
so much of myself.
I am working
towards gaining
the financial
independence
to come out safely
even as the world
around me seems
to be burning down.
Political hatred of trans people
is on the rise.
I am more enmeshed
in the family business.
But also,
I don’t know who I want to be.
I know I want to wear pink
and be called by my female name
and not be called “sir.”
I don’t hate the body
or the person
who got me this far.
But am I ready to give him up?
And am I feminine enough?
I can’t even do my own makeup.
If I get what I want,
will I be ready for it?
I could live
as non-binary.
It would be harder
to explain to people.
And I’m not sure
it’s what I really want.
My joy is when
I am seen as fully female.
I still carry the question inside of me.
How am I going to live in this world?
The music is blaring, but not enough for the lyrics
to be heard clearly over the chitter of the register,
the plastic-haired sportscaster’s enthusiastic play-
by-play from the television, the din of town drunks
clinging lopsidedly to the bar, beer-brave voices
chuffing and squealing, accompanying the lone
man with a guitar and a chipped tip jar, careless
curls falling damp over his forehead, perched atop
a three-legged stool and singing from the soul with
his eyes closed. I close mine too, hoping the loss
of sight will quell this feeling that the insectile gaze
of every pair of eyes is skittering across my hide
but instead it amplifies the atmosphere, this sharp
edge intensity, until I can almost taste the colors
in the room. The early summer breeze creeps lazily
towards my corner table through open doors, twining
itself around the sweating lowball glass in a sultry
embrace. The stout old fashioned begrudgingly begins
to give up its coolness, orange twist and cherry red
treasures sunk to the amber bottom—a watery house
bourbon grave—and I try to imagine myself there
languid limbs floating weightless in the glass, engulfed
in melting ice and bitters that drown every other sound
except that sweetly spiced voice, and when his final
song ends, I’m the only one who claps.
wisdom says
Space is needed
grasshopper
space and time
the cards say
you’ve been going it alone
for a while
you’ve repaired the wreckage
of so many lost voyages
with gold
“you can’t hurry this time”
“exercise patience”
may I be so bold
as to ask this of you
ancestors/spirit guides
& Algorithms of consciousness
do you remember how first love felt?
or first love after the last one
you swore you would never have
is it like yesterday for you?
the call to be present with another being
sharing heartbeats without speaking
hearing the quietude of each other’s bliss
no questions to be had
except this
who’s gonna say it first?
because I sure can’t
It hasn’t had enough time
in the fridge, to marinate
then again
some of the best-cooked
salmon steaks
didn’t take that much time at all
wish me luck
teachers
wish me luck
and thanks for all the fish
Bathed in the sun’s energy, full tilt,
let the longest day’s light carry you
through the moonless nights, alone and still.
Bathed in the sun’s energy, full tilt,
the earth leans to gather her fill,
pour into the empty, begin anew.
Bathed in the sun’s energy, full tilt.
Let the longest day’s light carry you.
Oranges
Carrots
Monarch butterflies
Peaches
Sweet Potatoes
Pumpkins Pies
Gold Fish
Marigolds
Kumquats
Cantaloupe
Tumeric
Papaya
Autumn leaves
Butternut Squash
Amber
Amber carried the DNA of the mosquito that evolved into Jurassic Park
Orange is the color of our flaming sun
The color of breaking dawn
Orange is a desert sunset
The color of the painted mountain glow
11 p.m., Solstice eve
I and a random thousand others watch two men
Limbs loose-goose dancing
Blowing bubbles
As the sun rises over Stonehenge
Many hearts fly on the stream
6:30 a.m., Solstice morning
My son
For the first time all summer
Decides to wake up before 10.
The cat decides this is a good idea, too.
8:00 a.m., Solstice morning
I shower
Washing my hair
As I dither over words
For this poem.
10 a.m., Solstice day
I have subjected myself
To the beeping-screeching-strobing chaos
Of Malibu Jack’s
All for love
12:30 p.m., Solstice day
I am
Still
In Malibu Jack’s
I begin to doubt this love feeling
3:00 p.m., Solstice afternoon
I am naked
Under a thin sheet
Nervously tip-tapping my toes
Waiting for my doctor.
All is well,
But I have to come back next year
6:00 p.m., Solstice evening
I am chopping dicing
Crying over onions
Making a Solstice feast
For my little family of two.
The cats are chewing on our Solstice bouquet.
Blessings.
7:00 p.m., Solstice evening
I am crouched
Looking like a crazier lady than normal
By a dumpster
Trying to lure out a bunny
Someone has dumped at the park.
I bless the bunny,
Curse the people.
7:41 p.m., Solstice evening
The sun has slowly
Begun to dip
Below the wavering line of trees
I’m tired
And a dog is barking
But the wheel turns on
So Happy Litha and Happy Solstice
To all the little moments
Seventeen years ago today
the telephone rang three times.
Grandma picked up the receiver and listened.
She sat down on the kitchen stool
that was also a stepladder.
She told me Mom was gone.
I wasn’t sure if that meant
on a trip or dead.
I guess Mom’d had enough
of me, of us,
and wanted to leave for good.
I used to hope.
I’d wait for her,
especially at Christmas,
and on my birthday.
For seventeen years
Grandma’s tried hard to make up for things,
and I’m okay.
I just get lonesome sometimes.
