posted in: Poem | 0

it has become almost religious: two or three times
each week, i drive an hour to see women pretend
they are men. their breasts have been wound
and flattened, their hair cut short, they are
equipped with penises of duct tape and sock.
in cowboy hats and jeans, white shirts and ties,
they lip sync in an alphabet only the body can interpret

and what of the body, who for thirty years staked
her allegiance in one nation, while admitting to break
its lesser edicts about sex and love,
who and how many? imagine that self-proclaimed outlaw
dreaming a life of prescribed normalcy

i see myself now, for six months caught between planets:
loving a man i mean to spend my days with and a woman
who dances on-stage for anyone who can afford
cover. her repertoire of male voices, from pop
to country, thrills because of an underlying forgery

do you think i could write myself back into
the hewn dimensions of any single space? home is the structure
you build when nowhere else will have you

“Outing” was published in Bisexuality and Transgenderism: Intersexions of the Others.

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