Poems of gender, emergence, and the sacred act of naming oneself.
Being Her
the body I have the body I work with I mirror what's inside to be recognized I take pills I pluck hair I wear accessories I have chest and hip growth I endure surgery after deliberate effort I enter your office flower patterned crop top deep red lipstick
Being Her
I've stopped being what I imagine my family wants me to be now they hunt me I'm a transgender mother with a three-year-old son it's not safe a shadow of doubt is stronger than facts truer than truth DCFS waits at my door the
Sanctified Dust
I don't know why I'm a trans woman I Who Have Never Known Men a prisoner in my body transitioning allows me sunlight and like in the book my prison follows me answers aren't real knowledge reveals more questions so I keep seeking I
Being Her
an email blind copied sent to my ex and myself the contents simple from the person arranging parent-time exchanges recently, I’ve been consuming legal documents which either misgender me or sidestep pronouns so when the email came I expected the same I wasn't prepared for the flood
Being Her
no orgasm achieved no climax reached having a penis for 49 years now it's gone surgically replaced with a vulva I care for it daily keeping it clean watching for proper healing I stretch the scarred tissue gently massage the swelling soak it in warm bath water like
Being Her
blue purple brown yellow like an animated cloud tattoo slowly floating spreading from my pelvis outward a mons pubis swelling forward beyond my stomach between my legs stitches hold together the newly shaped V blood-soaked pads pee exiting as a wide spade then dripping off my legs painful healing chaotic
Being Her
leaning over letting gravity lift my hair allowing the warm air to dry more efficiently a morning ready ritual eyes looking at hip level seeing between my legs I am not jolted I am not ashamed I do not look away what is there is mine new—less than a
Being Her
on the scale it wasn't heavy of a normal size and weight Goodwin took it off today I didn't understand my dysphoric load until gone—I understood
Being Her
I met a young woman in the park today with a boy's haircut she was on her bike heading to work wheels rolling swiftly flowing in the direction of the river full of life and responsibility opportunities not usually extended to young women the earth circling back catching
Being Her
estrogen was enough to feminise my flow I practiced years of meditation with a mind full of testosterone watching the chatter— a second self interjecting estrogen has made that self silent leaving just me when I close my eyes the colorless dark patterns stay fixed in place no longer swirling
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 dust has 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