Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it

Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.'
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?

If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush ----
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?

It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious ******

To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ----
The mausoleum, the wax house.

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am **** as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a ******,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ----
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

I remember the white cheesecloth of my grandmother by which she was making cheese from milk. In fact, I liked that barrier, cheesecloth, because I didn't like milk and I was liking cheese, and because it's real and white, but you see the barriers these days; it's red and dark. Yes, they are, like my heart, bitter, dark and full of lies.

In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.


© M.L.Emmett

the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.

this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.

purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****

so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******

You just keep on carving back my smiles,
elastic vowels you blanket me in,
drowning me, again, with smoke from your belly.
Gargle all the chunky bits
that remain in this blended relationship.
Strain them out through the cheesecloth
which splits apart,
like the split between your legs

The split of an insect’s back when it
bends, arches, reaches too far.
And I’m sick of that bird-****-yellow
oozing out from that crack there;
held in your scarecrow arms.

I don’t want to be your headache
in this migraine *******.

i am life in all its forms
gardenias blossom in your garden
roses and geranium are in full bloom
sun, rain and wind nurture your soul
all is held in a vision of beauty
suspend judgement for a moment and relax duty
just be still and see the quality of life unfolding
have you found the rhythm yet
take time to wait for it to come to you
so long as you chase it
it will fly away faster than an arrow
but sit back and wait
and it will return as fast as it can
solve nothing and situate yourself between all limitations
as for pouring out your heart you must do that in stages
send messages to the ladies you are in love with
tell them you are always willing
to partake in the kindness of their salvation
send them flowers by way of mental teleportation
insanity is courage spread out upon the table
like a banquet we dine and resolve to try all the flavors
sorrow and madness are two tastes
that you remember from your childhood acquaintances
a long time ago there lived a boy in a basement
he had no friends or other people to educate him
so he set off on a course of morose self effacement
and learned the secrets to yesterday’s replacements
so many mornings he woke up
and found himself in a shallow pool of water
not knowing how he got there
he decided he would try to have a daughter
so he found himself a girlfriend
that he carved out of some stone
and into the water he tossed her
so he would no longer be alone
what a small child they had inside the pool
a tiny being the size of a pebble
yet they loved and cherished her like a princess
since they never left their home they could stay together
frequently his mind was a vacant island
surrounded by water on all sides
a perfect getaway for a tranquil vacation
next to the galapagos
there are seventeen dragons who take the form of turtles
he sold his hair for cash
and stashed it in their pockets
he sold his eyes for a sack of rice
and borrowed visions from the earth
she was a huntress
who gathered all her weapons
and sent them out with magic
into the forest to look for food
her legs had given up
but her mind was as strong as a lion
her spinal column danced in lightning’s garden
successful at shooting she could **** a bear in thirty seconds
her most altruistic side was alive
the day she discovered their burning child
instead of rescuing her she stoked the fire higher
but before she could be immolated
she untied her wrists and ankles
she ran away screaming but her mother didn’t even move
her stoic features held together like the stillness of a mountain
down, down, down deep in the valley
her laughter echoed loudly and her smile could cut through diamonds
all of the creatures that lived in this canyon
could only hope to be devoured
by someone as naughty as she was
and now the snow melts in summer
slowly as a snail
and dry are the fields who get only hail
and never rain nor shower
only thunder and the brightest flowers
for lightning fertilizes the soil
and soil is precisely new matter
that is waiting to be born
turning in the womb
the child is torn from her mother’s body
and pierced with the red spear of the dawn
shadows of mercury remain
in the warm amniotic fluid that is collected in a jar
like dew its is the moisture that holds the nectar of the stars
shreds of luminous light from the moon are shining like knives
tearing the sky to pieces as quickly as a kite darts past the sky
birds return to their nests as the day is over
and now its time for all to rest
so set yourself a placemat and prepare dinner in your sleep
yes you are present but at the moment talk is cheap
like porous cheesecloth used to strain milk and butter
long hours spent working tirelessly to prepare meals for
seven little brats
your music is a carriage to take you far away from that
pain and isolation that blooms despite your breath
never ever let them see you like that
start a journal or a blog
and tell the world how you feel
about chickens and turtles and the rest of the farm
stars are our teachers, for in letting go of beauty
they fall from the sky to finish off their duty
studious and serious the child plays with nothing
all is work and study in this day and age
of modern educational slavery
a stage for violent revolution is set
yet we fight the battles in the bathtubs
with our children’s hearts breaking
each day new devastating accounts
of tragedy and violence everywhere you turn
who will brush your hair
who will look out for the little ones
several hours pass and their is no sign of the rain letting up
its pouring harder than a drummer
hitting all the symbols at once
symbolic language a variation of music
variance and broad spectrums of diversity
amuse the angels who see only unity
lounging around on solid ground looking for happiness
this residue of yesterday is all over the flowers
targets in the city street are lighting up one at a time
next door to your house i see the writing on the wall
left there by a writer neither short nor tall
mint tea with honey drunk from a mason jar with almond milk
a stallion rides through heaven and raises up a storm
the sky he rides upon gives way to the stars
and like the bottom of a canyon
venus, earth, and mars are all slowly trampled upon
by the steeds powerful form
meditation is never ending
in full bodied harmony
our strings are being pulled by a puppeteer
he is a father figure
dreamed up from the pages of a story book
yet all the words are meaningless
until you’ve held that spark of luminous silence
that echoes in the darkness of the heart
yelling out loud but no one can hear you
through frozen windows you scream that you are lonely
come on outside and play in the Sun
hanging from the treetops are your old classmates
you tied the noose around their necks and let them sway for days
anger is a poison yet it heals many wounds
forgive the collective unconscious
or your destiny may be to wind up empty as a shell

Those clock face braids,
Twelve, three, six and nine
Oh! How lovely they shine,
I love and hate them at the same time

The smell of the coconut oil from my hair
made my eyes water,
But, my scalp stay healthy and oily
that's been  all that matters to me
plus the warmth of her gentle hands

My aching back this pounding headache
Make me think of grandma’s hands,
but to think of her hands,
I had to think about her golden brown ***** cakes,
or those hands that soothe my aches and pain,
When I was a medically fragile child,


She would put a soft cheesy two layer of
Cheesecloth, melted onions, two banana leaves
Between the cloths, she would gentle placed it
  on my congested chest, and spoke to us as if
Vick vapor tropical cream, was minty ice-cream
Grandma’s hands, always had that added plus
She named her thick brown belt
“Do as I say, not as you do”
Because Nana might have to disciplined  you,

I held on to Grandma’s hand so tight,
until I was about twelve ,
It was sad day for me when
she passed on to another world
Nana if you can hear me,
I am still holding, and holding tight
To those wonderful memories we once shared.
Elfriede A.

The new growth on my apple trees is covered in aphids;
the leaves curl and darken under the crawling green foam of their bodies.
My roses broke out in black, dropping yellow leaves,
bearing thick sickly flowers of hope on bare spindly stems.
Now even old hollyhocks have scales, those innocent seeming bumps
multiplying and spreading. And the aphids will go everywhere when they
**** the apple trees dry, they are already migrating
to poppy buds and young tomatoes.

I go to the nursery, resisting the urge to wring and brush off my hands.
She uncovers the facts--my garden got no fertilizer, and water may be insufficient.
So I will try to give my garden what it needs--the nutritious powder, the thorough watering,
the ladybugs in cheesecloth cages, the beneficial microbes, and where I must I will hack the plants away.

My self, meanwhile,
crawls too.

I slather vice on the wound, but the sting always returns.

The world expects me to be stronger than I am. The world is set up
for strong people, and it provides for them.

Once again I am like the short, shy child standing by the counter, overlooked.
But I cannot expect to grow into strength. And the world will only protect me
once I no longer need protection.

At times I sit in a stream of presence. I slather virtue on the wound,
but the sting always returns.

I straddle need and lack,
a gaping wound between my feet. I could sink down that hole,
but it too hurts, it hurts.

I am in the wild--no gardener comes to tend to my hunger or thirst,
or my illness after harsh conditions. Well, one comes--
a harsh gardener comes.

I wring and brush off my hands. I brush off each little invasion,
but there are always more.

My hexagon’s long gone out.
The wax we stole off petticoats and
Barnacles liberated from the hulls of boats
Turned honey from the stress; fermenting
There, amongst the mess of our salty wares.
And
It wasn't long before the bee’s came drifting,
Pollen ridden beggars with empty bowls worn
Like terracotta crowns, souls freed from their
Geometric cells—And Love, that howling beast,
Not content to ring one lonesome bell, rather
An
Orchestra of buzzing offbeats. Chimes
Let resonate to some queen frequency,
A cheesecloth hive; a makeshift bag of tea.
Let it steep—Just be— Aware of the metaphor
That can be drawn between you and I:
A
Honeycomb kingdom of orderly
Disorder. The halls composed of sound:
A knock-knock-knocking rain. A circle coming
‘round. A muse, the notion of patterned chaos:
The fluid markings of Jade; rigid wood grain.

I cried for you
a flash of silver
between my teeth
lips, scarlet and drip-
ing

at seventeen I knew
the weight of you,
each hair on your arms
as you pressed my back
into the stained carpet

the Japanese tattoo
that struck me,
tracing the thick, black lines
with my eyes

a quick glimpse of my
grandfather, mixing bread
with milk and whiskey

flowers that grew, evergreen
in the garden where
he'd chase me

laughter ringing through the air,
cheesecloth blue dresses
and black, buckled shoes

you eat me, heart first
then each sense in turn.

I welcome the loss of
them all.

The touch of your
nails in my thighs. The
taste of blood as your
rotten mouth consumes
my own. The sound
of flesh beating flesh.
The sight of sweat beads
resting on your brow. The
smell of ***** seeping
through skin.

In a moment
I am no longer
a girl

but a woman eating
the words off my clothes,
smarting, sinister ****

a ***** kitchen floor
is waiting. The cool relief
of the tiles on my
burning skin

and a reflection of a woman,
no longer whole, yet still
alive

I cried for you
a flash of silver
between my teeth
lips, scarlet and drip-
ing

at seventeen I knew
the weight of you,
each hair on your arms
as you pressed my back
into the stained carpet

the Japanese tattoo
that, tracing the thick
black lines with my eyes

a quick glimpse of my
grandfather, mixing bread
with milk and whiskey

flowers that grew, evergreen
in the garden where
he'd chase me

laughter ringing through the air
cheesecloth blue dresses
and black, buckled shoes

you eat me, heart first
then each sense in turn.
I welcome the loss of
them all.

The touch of your
nails in my thighs. The
taste of blood as your
rotted mouth envelopes
my own. The sound
of flesh beating flesh.
The sight of sweat beads
resting on your brow. The
smell of ***** seeping
through skin.

In a moment
I am no longer
a girl

but a woman eating
the words off my clothes, smarting, sinister ****

a ***** kitchen floor
is waiting. The cool relief
of the tiles on my
burning skin

a woman,
no longer whole
yet still
alive

hellopoetry.com/poem/1106978/witherspoon/
witherspoon
3/7/2015

I've met a few good men,
a few good men, this is why
I am so vexed.

The springing pantomines
of careful youth rings around
the green, as it always has

the campus store sells
cigarettes and muffins and condoms
as it always has, and

although the mood is different than
the one on early semester Halloween
night,

The grass is as green as it always
has been.
I need to learn to let people

and things go, but it doesn't help
when you live, when half of those memories

happened in towns where George Washington and Witherspoon got
drunk off their *****,

and Madison lied about men in the woods. Sitting dully alone in the stadium

the vast Powers,
I am one in 23,000
and I do not know how I feel

about that and the lost
days when I used to chain smoke
voraciously in the parking lot

in a car that smelled like
burnt tobacco
and run through

the rain in Murray dodge,
write on the walls at the Pyne
arches and smoke

drugs with friends
in the freezing rain on Wilson's
grave.

This is all gone now
and
I need new trivial distractions

now that all of mine are gone
and I see the summer sun getting
closer to my bruised memory.


i've met a few good men
key word:
few.

the quivering ghosts of our
salad days runs around the green
do you remember? are you sure?

i ran through the campus store
laughing til my liver hurt
posing with antifreeze, asking friends "anyone want shots?"

i don't know, wouldn't know
what princeton's like now
because i haven't been in six months.

i do vaguely remember
strips of it, the cheesecloth that wrapped around
the ides of april, freezing and shivering under my arms.

i still haven't learned how to let people go.
it is difficult when
you live in a town that is made by its history.

what town or person isn't?
constant talk of Stockton, Witherspoon and Washington's
crossing damns my existence.

i used to go down to the stadium
freeze my fingers off or pop open bottles with
White

i remember when i lied to Lacava about my first time
smoking cigarettes that is
he bought me my first pack

i sat in the front seat of the car that january
trying to coolly inhale
begging to god to not let me cough.

i didn't.
i remember i ran through the rain with someone i loved, once
through murray dodge

he'd told me he never forgot the way
i looked with eyeliner dripping down my face and
my soaking hair slowly curling into snail shells.

i'd written on the arches at Pyne
then i'd written on the walls with our spit
joking - why's it called PVNE?

I sat serenely with my friends one February day
that year, i must specify because one  has passed already.
smoking bouges on Burr's grave, so bougie.

i got new distractions
i don't have any way to keep them, though
i'll find a way in the summer

or maybe not
maybe.
maybe.

on boxed cigarettes
what the ground does to water              
cheesecloth does, filters

Crack In The Stove
Listen to the pine splits
crack in the stove
clouds down our roof like
burnt pine, milk
The smell of come in the shack

A breeze on the wall
from boiling tomatoes
A baby snorts air
while it ***** a tender breast

it was time to put apricots
out in the sun,
cover them with cheesecloth

Nothing but the whine of bad mud
between the cabin logs
I hum Cold Blew The Bliss
to the cild, touch fattened dough
I wait for the sound of his truck
hoeing a splutter of thawed ditch

And when he comes he points his rifle
at the floor, lets the dog
smell his pants

Soup's about done

Crack In The Stove
Listen to the pine splits
crack in the stove
clouds down our roof like
burnt pine, milk
The smell of come in the shack

A breeze on the wall
from boiling tomatoes
A baby snorts air
while it ***** a tender breast

it was time to put apricots
out in the sun,
cover them with cheesecloth

Nothing but the whine of bad mud
between the cabin logs
I hum Cold Blew The Bliss
to the cild, touch fattened dough
I wait for the sound of his truck
hoeing a splutter of thawed ditch

And when he comes he points his rifle
at the floor, lets the dog
smell his pants

Soup's about done

I did the ***, drugs, and rock and roll thing
But it didn't actually, teach me anything
Back then, there was no internet to investigate
No books in libraries, about my kind of state
So i adopted, the then hippie style fashion
To avoid any kind, of trans bashing
It allowed me, to grow my hair long
So i was more in tune, with my kind of song
With an afghan coat, and cheesecloth shirt
Petula oil, hippy beads, but never a skirt
At the age of fifteen, i left my home
After fourteen schools, i was destined to roam
So off i ventured, into the big wide world
Waiting to see, how my life would be unfurled
After much wandering, and travelling around
Aged 27, i momentarily landed, on a different ground
I got married, then within a year, divorced
My life was still veering, way of course
Yet within five years, to subdue my fears
I met my second wife, together for 23 years
Yet still i had a secret, which i kept at bay
That i knew i was a woman, in almost every way
I knew things were ending, and life felt weird
When my wife, got me to cut my hair, and to grow a beard
I understood why, she just wanted to man me up
As i supped in the misery, like a dying buttercup
Me, and my daughter, then moved down here
Much stress was happening, i couldn't allay my fears
After two years, my daughter to her mother went back
Then returned two years later, in time for my heart attack
During those four years in total, much had occurred
Finding my mother dead, made redundant, it became absurd
I'd already seen my GP, to talk about my gender
And had gone to London several times, to put in my tender
But because of my heart, my GRS was put on hold
And thought back then, it was unlikely i'd achieve my goal
Yet 22 months, and two heart surgeries later
I was as ready, as a toothless alligator
On the 30th May 2019, i had my gender reassignment surgery
I cannot lie, it was painful, screamingly at first, no purgery
I told friends, it was done in Wimbledon, as i had some doubt
That i'd return as a Womble, or a tennis player with gout?
But all had gone as expected, and i recovered well
My butterfly wings had grown, as i flew out of my secret hell
Never imagining, that just three years on
Telling people a brief history of my life, what could possibly go wrong?
I have many friends, that are lgbtq+, without debate
But many of my friends are also straight
All my change, was thanks to the NHS
I had told them my truths, without any redress
So my message to anyone, whatever their age
Don't rush into this, do it stage by stage
Whatever you do, be you bold, or shy
You will gain you wings and be a beautiful butterfly
Find a good GP, that is helpful, and kind
That doesn't treat you, like you're out of your mind
That the whole process, from beginning to end
Is worth it, as you become your own best friend

by Jemia

Crack In The Stove
Listen to the pine splits
crack in the stove
clouds down our roof like
burnt pine, milk
The smell of come in the shack

A breeze on the wall
from boiling tomatoes
A baby snorts air
while it ***** a tender breast

it was time to put apricots
out in the sun,
cover them with cheesecloth

Nothing but the whine of bad mud
between the cabin logs
I hum Cold Blew The Bliss
to the cild, touch fattened dough
I wait for the sound of his truck
hoeing a splutter of thawed ditch

And when he comes he points his rifle
at the floor, lets the dog
smell his pants

Soup's about done

December, nineteen sixty three
the frost collects in the beards of the homeless
who weep tears of defeat; life seems hopeless
Philadelphia
bundled under blankets of snow
shivering and miserable they line the streets
few of them sleep, with nowhere to go
they borrow time to live, three starve for every one who eats
poverty and frail bones, behind their eyes they are hollow

Venture to their jungles, see their thin and decaying forms
shuffling as if their ankles are in chains, food slow enough for the worms
before they die their wretched lives waste away, compassion transforms
they chip at this glacier to reach the hearts and minds inside, yet the blizzard never warms
you strangers never warm; they were never warned
wringing a cheesecloth over an old mug
a belly full of fire to liven up the poor man
ours was just fifteen when he caught the bug
strained through a sock straight from a tin can

Oh no, look who came back with the Sterno-Inferno
give me a swig, give me sight, bring on the Canned Heat
knock you through the brig, won't even put up no fight, swept right off of my feet
loopy and sappy, it'll make you feel happy
it's quicker, hotter, and easier too
if you was where we was, what would you do?

He's drinking, and drinking, but it's not going away
in one month they lost a person for every day
thirty one deaths
thirty one deaths!
Thirty one deaths
it seems sometimes like he's the only one who can't forget
and as he exhales into his interlaced fingers
he can't see the blood on his hands, but the scent of iron lingers
young and alone, he staggers through winter like wet cement
with a pain pushing on his kidney like a broken bone that won't relent
his needs come back and haunt him, yet
direction is the one thing in life he could never find
now his hands guide him through a picture in his mind
swearing, crying, I am blind!

It was the perfect irony
when the sidewalks cleared of ice
and the sun shone down, now they could see
they wanted to go outside when it was nice,
but for the loss of many,
when they found his body
struck by a shovel clearing a path
on his side curled in a ball,
they became numbers to his statistic, indifferent and evil math
more witnesses than family, all their eyes would fall
that's the cruel nature, he died by a stoop and no one saw or heard his call
when he was discovered, he was made an example to them all
on the dangers of drinking methanol.

I am classed as transgender
Yet feel i am truegender
And for all of what it's worth
I was born with 21 digits, at my birth
So i spent 60 years, man back to childhood
But would release the inner female, whenever i could
Back in time, with no technology to play
When it was dangerous, even to be gay
So i donned an Afghan coat, and grew my hair long
Regularly indulged, in the occasional ****
Cheesecloth shirts, Petula oil, and beads
Met some lovely women, in which to sow seeds
Whilst hiding behind, my true woman self
Putting that behind, a discretely hidden shelf
There were no resources, to research my thoughts
Tried following instincts, remaining self-taught
In my search for answers, i slept with some men
But that wasn't for me, so didn't do it again
Felt like an alien, from a far of world
Carried on with life, to see what unfurled
When my second marriage, came to an end
The internet became an educator, and kind of friend
Led me to my doctor, for some simple advice
As could not live my life, living with lies
So my true life journey, began all afresh
Was not about my mind, just about the flesh
So i followed the route, proffered to me
Spoke to professionals, of ******-analysis, and psychiatry
They in unison agreed, i was doing the right thing
To adjusting my physical self, to match my mind, would let my heart sing
So at long last, my journey had begun
And in a few years, the process would be done
But then on 18th July, in twenty seventeen
Something dramatic happened, that was unforeseen
After forty years of smoking, and ****, and living in dread
Had a major heart attack, but for an emergency op, could of been dead
The skills of the surgeon, four stents were carefully placed
My hopes of transition, were quickly displaced
Just three weeks later, redundancy came my way
Liquidation of company i worked for, added to the dismay
But within a year, i was attending a gym
To build up my heart muscles, and remain being slim
And although my transition, was on indefinite hold
There was still a chance, so i was told
I had given up, but at least was still alive
But thought that moment, was unlikely to arrive
Yet against all odds, that i had in my thoughts
The light at tunnels end, so soon to be caught
More trips to Londinium, and return journeys back
The course of discussions suggested, i was back on track
Until finally in 2019, on 30th May last year
I had my Gender Reassignment Surgery, Dear!
So now i live, with one digit less
My mind remains the same, i can still play chess
This is simply my story, how my life began to unfold
Others in a similar position, may have different stories to be told
But ultimately, be we people, aliens, or elves
We all strive, when possible, to simply be ourselves