Please visit the Publications page to see my poems which have been published. Poems posted here are currently unpublished.
Iĝanta, aŭ, Meditado sur la Vivo de Juna Transseksulo
Mi ankoraŭ estas iĝanta
Mi malvolvis la kaĝo el drato ke mordis mian infanaĝan haŭton,
Derompantis miajn bebadentojn sur la pikdrato ekstere de la pordo de mia patro.
Kaj la krustoj ankoraŭ jukas; ili estas freŝaj, senresanigaj, kaj doloraj
Ĉar mi ankoraŭ estas iĝanta
Kaj mi malamas ĝin; stranga kiel tio estas por mi:
Esti transseksulo kiu malamas transirojn.
Mi malakceptas ĉion, kion mi iam sciis, por rekonstrui ĝin el nenio
Kiam ĉio, kion mi iam deziris, estis hejmon, kiu povus elteni tra la ŝtormojn
Sed ne estas truoj en la gipsoplanko
Miaj fingroartikoj ne plu estas kontuzitaj
Kaj ĉe noktoj kiam mi draŝas, kiam mi batas kontraŭ mia haŭto
kaj makulas mian animon kun profana kolerego
Mia kara amanto tenas miajn manojn
Mi ne sufiĉas por rin
Sed mi pliiĝantas
Kaj, malsaĝa profetaĵo kiel ĝi povus esti, ri kredas ke la virino kiu mi iĝos
Valoras la maliĝadon kiun mi devis elteni
Kaj iam, mia iĝanto estos
Baby Blue
O, little girl, you wanted a softer blue
Given a choice, we both know what you'd choose
Come, hold my hand, tell me what you know
Show me the art you make, and I'll show you mine, too
O, little girl, I know it's more than clay
As you send it to the kiln, in darker blue it's stained
There, with your hands, you formed it and shaped
Did what you thought was right, and locked yourself away
O, little girl, you'll know this day forever
Little, blue-glazed pot, dark, like a brother
But now, on your hands, painted by a lover
Your nails are baby blue, soft, like a mother
O! Mother!
O, Mother! I am reaching out to you
To take your broken heart in my hands
and your broken hands in my heart
O, Mother! I live a life you hardly knew
Untitled
I cling to my God with vicious hands
Looking for my sinistrous savior's undying lands
When drinking his blood feels drunken and vain,
How can I trust that he has any claim?
Consume me from the inside; eat my heart whole
Bestow on me the curse of a bare human soul
Speak to me like Moses, but from a burning Church
Lead me to Satan, and show me his worth
Song to be Found
Met you on the weekend
and gave you my t-shirt
the only thing I had that you could take
Away down the dirt road
counting out the corn fields
try not to think about you by the lake
If you could believe me
I'd tell you I still dream
and the memory of you makes me shake
But I got to find you
if for just a few days
and maybe you'll find me again someday...
Song of Self, or Spread-Eagle
Here's the thing
—when you find me, spread-eagle on our coital bed, hands wandering my open legs—
It's not that I need this. 'Need' is a paltry word for the desire that courses through me as I find myself;
It cannot capture the allure of the friction between our warm bodies
All hands and mouths and little whispers
To know you is to know myself;
When your hands tangle in my girlishly-short hair,
When you give that little tug
—not enough to hurt, nor even enough to pull my head back to expose the soft skin of my throat—
I am wholly present in these holy moments
Love Under the Boot
I think what people don't get about it—
Love under the boot—
is that we know it will crush us
But who cares?
I built us a garden and
you brought the seeds and
she pulled the weeds and
they pulled tomatoes fat from the vine and
he's playing music and
THE SKY IS CRASHING DOWN
But I'm here with my friends and
We're not alone anymore
Untitled
I am the daughter that will not forgive
My father.
Not because I lack desire,
But I have wounds that won't close;
Scars that won't heal;
The mark of his boot on the side of my face
Which he put there so I'd match him
Because he couldn't be hurt without hurting
And I was small enough