my first haiku
it made me broken,
but i don’t know what it is,
so how can i mend?
Fat of the face dropping away from bone
Like a butcher cutting away the meat
Slick with salt
Eyes like glass marbles
The pupils darting to catch his eye
As he only glances from a hallowed stare
Dripping sweat
The way he bites down on his lip
Nostrils flaring with one last thrust
His heartbeat imprinting into his chest
Like a stamp
Tell tale sign of his exertion
Maybe of his desire
Certainly of his passion
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Step Eleven of the Twelve Steps of programs such as A.R.T.S. Anonymous is, “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”
Help me, God.
Please, life, give me a nod.
Help me, Universe.
Please don’t put me in a hearse.
Help me, Love.
Please show me that I can rise above.
I’ve been reading a lot about forgiveness lately.
And I suppose you’re on the list of people I need to forgive.
I once read that you can’t forgive people while they’re still hurting you.
Which is why I’ve cut some people out of my life this year.
Yet of course, you don’t budge when I try to remove you.
It’s people like you I find hardest to forgive
where your wrongness is entrenched deep in your skull
my psychologist mother taught me how to spot a Grade-A narcissist.
My religion says I should forgive you
that I have been forgiven of so many wrongs I should return the favor
and while I don’t disagree with the wrongs,
how does an imperfect mortal forgive such monumetal sins?
And so I don’t even want to pretend anymore
I want to spread horrible rumors
and watch in satisfaction as it dawns on you you’ve crossed a line I can’t ignore.
Will I though?
Of course not.
I’ll write poems about how much I hate you (keeping the you anonymous)
and I’ll keep reading about forgiveness
trying desperately to erase what you make me feel.
Satin petals of
burgundy cosmos
sway in synchrony,
a dance with many dancers.
Petals cupped upward
to catch and glean
the sun.
Leaves of pasted feathers
along the stems
delicate, keeping tempo,
early morning adagio.
I make the reservations
to see
my trans sisters next month.
I missed meeting up with them
last October
and back in March.
And I still can’t relax
and let myself enjoy this
until we arrive.
Can’t feel the joy of
anticipation
until I know
beyond a shadow of a doubt
that this is happening.
I am waiting for something else
at work
or with my family
to fall apart
and force me
to cancel again.
My needs always come last.
Being closeted,
I can’t tell my family
where I’m truly going
or why it means so much to me,
how these trips are
the deep breath of fresh air
that gets me through the rest of the year,
a week of being my true self without fear.
I haven’t femmed up all year,
not since New Year’s Eve.
I miss being in my feminine skin.
But I also fear it.
The long process
of putting myself together.
The low level anxiety
that lurks just beneath the joy.
The fears of not looking
like how I feel inside,
of being rejected,
etc.
My inner girl is aching.
I try to comfort her
and honor her
and spoil her
as best I can.
But I know I’m not giving her enough time.
Resuming electrolysis
means there’s only one day a week
I can actually shave
and put on makeup.
I usually miss that window.
I am trying to let go of perfection,
to embrace a more genderqueer
or nonbinary look,
to let myself wear
lipstick and eye makeup
around the house
even if I have a beard.
I love this second soul
who shares my body.
I want her to be happy.
I want her to thrive.
I feel like I am failing her.
But I am trying.
Dear God, how I’m trying.
We bought for our cat, Zorro, a flying squirrel toy not long ago.
Its webbed arms spread wide looking like little wings,
small defined paws, a plump body with a fluffy long tail,
realistic coloring,
very cute
Over time Zorro has developed the habit
of bringing this toy all over the house.
The once buoyant tail, now stringy thin,
And its overall rounded body, now a bit deflated
It is often dangling from Zorro’s jaws
as he leaps up on to our bed at night
He trots into every room we occupy
until we turn to acknowledge
his almost painful sounding wild-meow cries
that he makes with it tightly clinched
between his teeth.
Other times
He plants it deliberately
in the middle of a room, hallway or on the stair.
When I discover it underfoot
I jump a little as it now looks
like authentic rodent road kill,
its little pink paws reaching
out as though flattened by a tire
I have wondered
if Zorro’s positioning of this toy
is a sign of love or an indication
of dominance over our shared spaces?
What I conclude, due to this toy,
is that Zorro without a doubt
has an inner monologue concerning
this world we share with him.
As he decides what to do next
with the flying squirrel–
his cat mind takes over and he
figures out the best way to communicate
how much he loves us, and beyond that
also let us know that
He knows we love him!
Its all pretty clear to me now.
At the end of my tenth session of the day
I gather the crinkling handles of the bag
lining my office trashcan and lift.
The bottom catches on the rattan basket,
a small hole dripping something sinister
gently on the carpet.
My client’s eyes drift from the contents
to the splish-splash,
to my gaze and back again,
fear creeping between their brow.
Seven empty Sugar-Free Redbull corpses
clink against a tin of Tuna To-Go.
I want to say, “Don’t worry.”
I want to say, “Not FDA recommended.”
I want to say, “Long day.”
I want to say, “Your therapist has a therapist.”
I use the toe of my shoe to rub
the seeping substance in
to the thick fibers of the flooring.
I flick the light switch.
I lock the door behind us as we drift to the hall
then the parking lot.
I smile, “Have a wonderful weekend,”
as I power walk to the dumpster out back.
The last sip of caffeinated liquid dribbles on my pants.
I finally get in my car to go home
to take my Ambien and eat a microwave dinner
if it doesn’t take too long to heat up.
Eager to watch my true crime while I doom scroll online
until it’s Monday again and I’m masked enough
and Vyvansed and energy-drunk to the Gods.
Summer heat clinging to my glasses,
I lick the fog off the lenses
with my lapping, feral tongue.
“Siri, call Mom on speaker phone.”
I reverse from my parking spot
into a bush.
