Poems of gender, emergence, and the sacred act of naming oneself.
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
Being Her
I saw a man today in a soft blue suit he glowed in a radiant texture I never did glow like that now I wear skirts and dresses I glow
Being Her
I was a little girl when patriarchy told me to be a boy little girls obey like a precision cookie cutter the role is well defined little girls conform I read the script played the role and put the costume on little girls are invisible I loved the patriarchy I