Closing Ceremonies (Transsexual)

Everything can change. The rowan tree,

also known as the service tree,

can be cut up into toys: a truck, a

ball, a tree (small).

Everything

can change with tools.

*

Going for five seconds without my mind

challenging me to a duel.

*

Kindness, introspection, a late day with black tea

steeped too long.

Which means I will stay

up all night.

All nerves asunder. The scraps of

grace left to a tired body, the wind’s will

and last testament roaring

across land and river,

shaking my window.

*

The wind has to eat.

*

These are the tempers. Here, and here.

As I child I was consumed by the idea

I was “ugly,” and I had no idea what

that could possibly mean. Then

I would disassociate for three days straight.

I would head straight into

the castle and lock the gate behind me.

How did anyone ever see

me as playful.

*

Of course, my body escaped by

the skin of its teeth.

*

Weeds grow ceaselessly in the drainage ditch like cis “concerns.”

One degree warmer and—

*

Middle age arrives with the trumpet emoji,

with the medicalization of my summer body.

If the paraclete – the comforter –

enters me, I don’t know

a single celestial realm where I’d be absolved.

*

But…*swoons*

*

Meanwhile the emblem of love

pins itself to my chest.

With regards and comity.

A doe in soft

grass enameled,

piercing my breastbone,

blood like the color

of a Solo cup.

*

As your indolent queen—

*

This is where I hit myself. Over is not over.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This disregard, this welter.

Were that I sweet-willed.

Were that I.

*

There are those who see me as a descecrated

tomb, and would shove me

into the smoke at the top of the mountain.

Signaling what? Who

do they want absolution from?

*

Plastic roses

on the side of the route

out of the wound, which

will never discolor

nor scar. And how

the breast bleeds in flight.