Poems of gender, emergence, and the sacred act of naming oneself.
Being Her
I was attacked by words today each one a tiny little demon clawing into my body finding the back of my neck micro fingers reaching grabbing at my nervous system pulling twisting disconnecting me I'm not even alive animated—yes yet stones have more identity somehow the wind
Being Her
every clock tick is a first tick never to happen just so some ticks echo sweetly returning as a lover tracing my toes intertwining with my fingers sweeping up my body lingering warmly breathing again as a new experience in my bundle of sweet clock ticks this one stands out
Being Her
for our contemporary dance performance I wore my white leopard tucked more convincingly taped more securely all us ladies danced with balloons music and costumes from UP the night ending gracefully while driving in street lights I did not notice something I had been living with it all my life
Being Her
she has only known me as HER my sweet lady friend twelve years older smiles without judgement but instinctively calls me HE is this because? I've had an IV dangling from my pelvis dripping shaping deepening snipping letters from me _ _ M A N and now when she hears
Being Her
while telling me I’m being fake a man boasted he honors his wife by insisting she needn’t fuss with makeup thankfully, he was wearing pants resisting the urge to go fully natural
Being Her
when you ask me to share my journey the discovery of myself what is your motive? underneath are you mentally gatekeeping? asking is she a SHE? so I may verify what details should I know about your conception?
Being Her
every woman is unique so I don’t mind you knowing I’m transgender there’s only one critic whose gaze cuts deep she is brutal she is kind she is Satan she is Christ when she says I don’t pass I wither beneath her scorn when she says
Being Her
a rattle in the mind or is it my body? I can’t tell who is speaking the voices are all familiar but they layer on each other like a drum machine random notes incomprehensible melodies they speak in fragments and yet, somehow have more power than full complete novels
Being Her
not me but attached to me part of me but not me some say it defines me If it’s here I’ll at least keep it tucked
Being Her
I did my eyes put on lipstick curled my hair slipped into my black dress patterned with pink and green mid-summer branches beauty layered on beauty have I done it? I check the mirror the man in my head laughs snickers pounding he yells YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS! voices a procession
Being Her
I was a child, I was home my sister and her friends playing made up things more real than reality you can hold a book you cannot hold a word crawling under the large pine tree we entered our house our school room our little shop goofing off for hours
Being Her
a gluey shadow slowly hugs me tightly wrapping arms around my head twisting fingers down my ears echoing a haunting lullaby words sucking on my soul eyes dribble wet from a wrung-out mind