Bright, clear blue dappled with white
I hear myself sigh
I try to guard my attention span
so Now I take this time at the red light to
Really Look at the sky
at the trees (I’ve never really asked myself about the species, have I?)
at the brick and the mortar
The police are here,
the corporation is safe,
the baby is dead.
My dad and his kidney are getting old.
Older than they were when our house was sold,
after his bills, care, debt, and bank took hold.
‘New transplant’s not likely,’ so I been told.
But I see him here, still here and still there.
He hurts–makes him angry–but he still cares
or tries to, at least, as much as he dares.
But worse and more stark,
Time just wears and tears.
I see him grow dark.
A whole lot to bear.
The space between two fences
where the ivy and junk
trees thrive. The socks
no one claims, fallen
between the laundry machines.
The middle shelf of the shared fridge
which no one cleans
with forgotten milk
and mayonnaise.
Hug me. I’m so very soft.
Let’s go out on the patio,
sip iced tea and sun
burn my fuzzy spine.
Please, please, please,
I’ll blink up at you, glitter
with my eight blue eyes
seeing little beyond
a gentle blurry darkness,
the sparkling fractals
of a world outside
my handmade burrow,
my silk spirals of defense.
Do not worry for my
many skin suits shed,
molted and tacked up
around me, shelled ghosts
of all my outgrown futures.
Do not fear the languid
way I crawl forward, extend
limbs towards you, longing,
weary, these black fangs
sheathed back, promise,
and I’m not hungry baby,
and it is not yet night to hunt.
I just want to sense you, take in
the floral vanilla saccharine
chemicals in your perfume,
the vibrations that ripple through
my many legs when you move.
A butterfly brush breeze caresses my lips
I travelled today,
from the bedroom to the kitchen.
I stayed a while,
Had some coffee and toast
I ventured to the desk
Played solitaire and read email.
I travelled today.
From the desk to the garden
I pulled weeds and
Added a trellis to some vines
I trekked to the shed
Only to find boxes and more boxes
I travelled today,
Down Memory Lane and
Remember This? Alley and
Way Back Avenue.
Then I travelled back to Real World.
Dishes and laundry waiting
News stories disrupting the quiet.
Corrupt politicians stealing.
Cowardly politicians acquiescing.
Real people standing up.
Ordinary citizens working together
Saving our democracy.
Travelling will broaden your mind and shrink your prejudice,
If you will open your heart.
Keep to the road you haven’t been down, learn it ain’t all about you.
begonias unplanted thrive
thrown into the brush under limbs’ shelter
remind me stuff grows in woods
goatweed pops from driveway black dirt pile
yummily paid six hundred dollars for
Myrtle laughs at the ugly
I love the look, but just as
heat incinerates us to august ash
yang goatweed envelops
so this year I pick it out
I don’t need more anything that forces
male virility construct
begonia female of females
grows in her yin shade, no use to male hormones
but stretching nude on sheets of loam
I don’t want to be visible.
I don’t want to be teased, bullied, rejected, and
hated.
I don’t want to be vulnerable.
It’s a double edged sword.
Because I also long to be seen
as my true self,
to stop being perceived as masculine.
I want to show the world my beauty,
the glow that only a privileged few get to witness.
I’m afraid of being visible.
I won’t even wear a dress
in the privacy of my living room
for fear the neighbors will see
through the window.
Or come knocking at the door
needing something.
For a long time,
nearly every time I dressed up
in my apartment,
my family would call
requiring some urgent favor.
And I would try to hastily take off
the butterfly necklace
I had spent forever putting on.
I learned it wasn’t safe to be myself,
even alone.
Like Pavlov’s shock collar,
the experience trained me
to never feel comfortable or breathe easy,
to stop doing the simplest,
most harmless things
that bring me gender euphoria.
My wants and needs come last.
Being outed could cost me
my job,
my healthcare,
my family,
even my home.
Just like being different cost me friends
and heartache growing up.
I am working to build a new life
where I am free and safe.
But living in the in-between is hell.
There isn’t a release date
I can count down to.
I’m tired of being alone and invisible
in most rooms.
Creation is painful.
There is a folk tale
where the hero is warned,
“If you take the feather,
you will know pain
and you will know trouble.”
I want to take the feather.
I long to burn in the fire
that is being
visible.
Scrub. Splash. Clink. Clamor.
His ears are as deaf to the din
As a veteran’s to cannons,
His eyes blind to the light
As if he had stared at the sun.
He lives in this old watering hole,
Managing the wants of rich and poor alike.
Trappings of class are taken at the door,
Leaving only humanity to humble itself.
All is bared in the barkeeper’s lair,
But judgement is spared,
For he is no worthier of bestowing justice,
Than the saviors and scum he serves.
