1..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and i show up early,
not quite knowing who it is
that i’m looking for

i don’t recognize her,
when she walks in the door,
twelve years younger than my 27,
but she knows me right away

i don’t mention the leather jacket
over the large sweater, surely impractical
for the summer heat, but we both
know what she’s still hiding,
and will continue to do so
for the next three years

we both order something iced and
a little too sweet, and it worries me
when she refuses the blueberry scone i
get for us to share

this won’t end for another four years, and i
almost tell her about the therapist we go to,
that actually sees, listens, and helps, that would
have walked me to the restaurant if i had asked

but that’s not my place, and she isn’t ready
to hear that yet, so i smile and thank her
when she compliments the tattoos
on both of my arms

she knows i’m working to hide something, too,
doesn’t ask if i ever miss it, can tell i do,
when it’s darker than i know how to
handle on my own

i tell her i like the purple hair, and she
says the gray starting to pepper my sideburns
is something she thought she’d never see
when looking in the mirror

we hug when she has to leave,
i say i never hated her,
and she says she knows

2..
we make plans to meet
for coffee, and both show
up early this time

he is eleven years younger than
my 27, barely a month shy of
relearning how to live, and not
just as a boy

he wants to know how long
we’ve been on testosterone, when
we got top surgery, and excitedly points
out the adam’s apple that thickened vocal
cords produced when our voice dropped

i order us the same drinks again,
and feel no small amount of relief
when he accepts the blueberry scone,
even if he only eats half

there are things i want to ask,
that i know he won’t answer,
and reassurances i want to give that
will only sound like platitudes to the
me that is still a teenager

i walk him out,
this time around, and almost
ask if he’s taking the same bus
that i am

we hug again, and i hold
him a little bit longer,
knowing it’s needed at that
point in our life

he steps back to get a better look
at me, in my short-sleeved work shirt
and shorts to show off the tattoos on
both of my knees, asks,
“are you, are we, happy?”

grinning, crooked, chipped teeth and all,
i tell him, “we are. we’re happy”

he grins back, says, “good,”
and waves before turning to
walk away

watching him, i notice that we’re
wearing the same boots, and
realize that she was, too

i bring a flannel to the
bathroom with me for
after my shower

no sports bra,
no binder,
no tee shirt

just fabric, soft from
years of wear, against
the scar that stretches,
unbroken, from armpit
to armpit

i watch myself in the
mirror, hairy stomach and
chest briefly on display,
pull the clover pendant out
to rest against the front
of the flannel, right over where
my scar is thickest in the middle
of my flat chest

i take the time to marvel at
how i get to wake up a man
every day, for the rest of
my life, because that is
what i chose

this is my one and only
most precious life, and i spent
far too long denying myself the
joy of my queerness and transness

why should i do that now?
why should i give into the misery that
is being pushed upon people like me,
when i get to watch the sunrise as i
walk to work? when my anniversaries of
top surgery and testosterone were only
one day apart last month? when i get to be an uncle?
when my mother calls me her son and
means it?

i am bathed in that early morning sun,
awash in so many rainbow hues,
no longer burning the candle at both ends

i will not be a statistic,
i will not be a martyr,
i will not be changed or silenced

and hell, wanting to die gets old,
after a little while

so i am going to grow up,
and i am going to grow old,
i am carving out a life for myself
that is worth living,
and holding onto that with
both of my hands

the time we spent
together was kind,
until it wasn’t

but it’s been a while,
so maybe i’m getting
some wires crossed here

and i never did learn
how not to need,
not to want

would you have told
me if that wanting was
too much, if it was too
big for you to hold?

i know nostalgia is
a liar, just as you were,
just as you are

so i’ll take my leave,
pack my bags and
exit through the backdoor
while you’re pretending to
be asleep

i wonder if you’ll listen
for the clinking of the
spurs on my worn boots,
the soft whinny of a
dappled mare and the
harsh closing of a barn door

will you mourn the heat
of my sleeping body when
that side of the bed grows colder
and colder?

i wish the blood in my mouth was yours,
but mercy ain’t what pays the bills,
is it, cowboy?

came by it honestly, all right
drinking through long nights,
dinner at 2am in my boxers,
a beer and a shot and a beer and

and i started drinking when
i was 18, okay

used to be able to put it away,
accidentally became a regular at the
bar across from campus,
followed by going to walgreens and
not looking the cashier in the eye
as i bought $30 of barefoot bubbly
wine with what i got back from fafsa

never drank what my old man did,
though, if that counts for anything,
just the thought of old crow
grog with a splash of lukewarm tap
water, no ice, makes my stomach turn

couldn’t tell you the color of
my father’s eyes, but i sure as
hell remember what he drank

remember the palm of his hand,
hitting the table, making me jump,
squeezing my upper arms as an
anchor point to lean over me and
yell, always where the bruises
wouldn’t show

and i don’t think of my father
when i drink anymore, though i
still remember the last father’s day
i got really drunk and really angry,
but still not enough to call

and i don’t drink much now,
found i don’t like being drunk,
and like being hungover even less,
but i sure came by it honestly,
nevertheless

and i wonder if he would recognize me
now, close to a decade on,
or would i just be a stranger with
his face, like he’s a stranger
with mine?

it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead

i still don’t know what
to do with that,
so i get up when my alarm
goes off and make coffee

there’s a hole in the heel
of one sock, in the toe of
another, and it’s a shock
when the cold wooden floor
hits my skin, still sleep-warm

and i could **** the socks,
though i’m only pretending to
know how, or simply throw them away,
but it feels like i wore those socks
the last time we breathed the
same air, yanno

i’m not looking for metaphors
or signs this time, injecting meaning
where there isn’t any

you’re not the bird at my
window, because i left some cashews
and walnuts on the sill

and that’s not really you,
standing on the corner as the
bus passed, but i thought that it
was for a split second and had to
stop myself from pulling the cord,
jumping off and calling a stranger
by your name

but i wore the same corduroy pants
and black vest with the gold swirls
as the same day we met, when i
no-showed that one time, and still
haven’t fully forgiven myself for it,
though i’d like to think that you would,
that you could

and it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead

and i keep meaning to bake you
a cake, and i’m sorry
that i haven’t yet

up before the sun,
walking under the softening
glow of a dotted moon,
already light down on the
street, yet still dark where the
light pollution can’t reach

and i want to be there,
almost desperately,
let’s go back to that spot
near the powerlines and
gravel roads, feel that
buzz in your molars

there’s a crackle in the air,
and we’re not far enough away
from the rest of it to find those
wild horses just yet,
but the bird call and chatter is
a **** good substitute

and i want to take a snapshot of you,
silhouetted by splash of sunrise
across the sky, something to keep
in the pocket of my jeans like a
polaroid, creased from running my
thumb across the surface

my hands do not shake this time,
firm grip on the shovel and
graveyard dirt on my boots,
sweat stained leather jacket collar

but i forget the thick gloves,
like i forget the bandana,
and that dirt clogs my lungs
as blood drip drip drips from
the torn skin of my palms

and i’m still not sure if
all this digging,
and digging,
and digging,
is to unearth or to bury

haunted by the ghost of the
girl i used to know,
the girl i used to be

breath comes out harsh,
a dancing ghost amongst the pines,
and i am rot waiting to happen,
washed in gold by the sunrise

i am the choke-chain,
and the tender hand,
the dog that bites the hand
that both beat me and loved me,
and i am rot waiting to happen

and i lived through who i was
to become who i am,
but sometimes even that looks like
asking myself what harm just one
more time could do, and remembering
those six years, where i started as a boy,
and stopped as a man

and i am a sinner,
with this shovel in my bleeding hands,
not quite stigmata, though the stained glass
in the skin of my knees begs to differ

and i am a sinner,
because i lived,
because i am both the haunted,
and the haunter,
the girl that grew into a man

and if we’re going to sin,
then let us sin wholly,
then let us sin holy