I.
I PROMISED HER MY HANDS WOULDNâT
GET ANY LARGER
But sheâs decided we need to trace them in case I
turn out to be wrong. Every morning she wakes me
with a sheet of paper. In the beginning, she stowed
all the tracings in a folder, until one day I said Iâd like
to at least see where this is going, and from that point on
we hung them on the wall chronologically. When I
study them, they look back at me like busted
headlights. I wear my lab coat around the house to
make sure they know whoâs observing whom. If we
can ensure records, if we can be diligent in our
testing. I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Nothing
feels smaller yet. Not her, not the kettle nor the key.
If my hands do grow, they should also be the kind
that can start a fire with just a deer in the road.
SPLIT IT OPEN JUST TO COUNT THE PIECES
One might consider that identification is always an ambivalent process.
âJudith Butler
Call me tumblefish, rip-roar, pocket of light,
haberdash and milkman, velveteen and silverbreath,
your bitch, your little brother, Ponderosa pine,
almanac and crabshack and dandelion weed. Call me
babyface, kidegeâlittle bird or little planeâthorn of rose
and loaded gun, a pile of walnut shells. Egg whites
and sandpaper, crown of Gabriel, hand-rolled sea,
call me cobblestone and half-pint, your Spanish
red-brick empire. Call me panic and Orion, Pinocchio
and buttercream. Saltlick, shooting star, August peach
and hurricane. Call me giddyup and Tarzan, riot boy
and monk, flavor-trip and soldier and departure.
Call me Eiffel Tower, arrondissement, le garçon,
call me the cigarette tossed near the leak
of gasoline. Call me and tell me that Paris is on fire at last,
that the queens of Harlem can have their operations
and their washing machines. Call me seamless,
call me sir. Call me tomorrowâs inevitable sunrise.
MAKE BELIEVE
Make believe generally has no rules except to stay in character.
âWikipedia
The first time I took a razor to my face
I forgot what I was made of. Having
made believe all I could, I made believe
a little further, pulling the open blade
around the corner of my lips, watching
a few desolate strands fall to the sink
like soldiers in a porcelain trench,
or as with invisible ink drew myself
a mustache I could get behind.
Or I am made up of fanciful scraps
and small fingers, one for every time
Iâve ever been called Sir.
Tomorrow Iâll get a prescription
is what Iâve resolved every day since
the last June solstice drained the light
from the sky and passerines remembered
they had wings. In the woods I walk
figure eights around ground shrubs
that cling to the cold grass below
and remind myself: no guarantees.
Itâs true, some days I want the beard
in writing, want to know that when
I needle myself every fourteen
days, all the hundred jagged things
that give me away will start to shift
and this traveling itch will disappear
for good. But it happens as a gradient
so I wait like small hands cupped. I wait
in character, hips pointing the way,
shoulders broad like a wingspan.
I wait at the outskirts of regulation
with my Stetson and Wranglers for
the oak tree and the sheep herd
and the waiter and the goat vet
and the teapot and the snowstorm
and my father and my fatherâs father
and the children I pass in the field
to see me as this new soft man
and for me to begin to believe it.
QUEER...