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Trans Manifesto

We won’t stay as obsession with the eggs!
They cannot abide our cracked shells
to tile around the kidney pool
where we get breathless
and lazy and want to float in our yolk.
Quickly it will turn to this in bed with you,
Gabriel, when first we’ll want to rip
your face off, Allah thanks, we won’t,
we’ll kiss. They’re all religion today.
Forcing us to tell
from our telling holes, hoping we get a disease
on a park bench, the slats
of the bench keeping some of our old
thighs when we stand, but our hand
and his member will remain
the unaffected extremities.
                                                                 How many were inside?
they wonder. We’ve a face down
there too, they won’t cover it,
we’re uncovered, we’re sleeping in the snow.
We’ll wait for them to qualify
each question have you ever wanted to kill yourself?
Define wanted. Have you
ever been attacked by a wild boar? Define wild.
Our wirebrush heart for you,
Gabriel, for your horn. We will be
a series. We want you
to lick us Gabriel, but we don’t know how
to make the right noises, we’ll sleep
with our hand under your back
in a swimming lesson. Can’t decide if they like us
better as a boy or a girl? They don’t get to choose.
Seven times you’ll kneel, seven times
stand, before we can undo our mouth
to come. You’ll pretend it’s your instrument,
brass, or a harmonica,
we always have to touch ourselves, the world won’t
help, it’s such a lie to be drunk in the field
with nothing else, nothing but home
to our family calling us the wrong name, the girl
in the meat department saying you look different,
the pony hit by the school bus and the bulldozer
carting chunks away by the shovelful
to creature the curb. Not a stain
in the middle of the road—we have to choose a name.
This is the jaundice sticking
to us from their legal pad.
This is a letter from camp. What did we learn
from them? Cursive? Just say it Gabriel—
it’s not in the dictionary. Forgive them for looking
at where our bathing suit
should be. Someone tell the boy
he has options. Grandfather will. Forgive them
for closing their eyes
when we pulled on our eggshell pool. Gabriel!
Come with us. The rule of thirds composes us,
each third is blue, Gabriel, we’re waiting,
we’ve taken umbrage to the store
and turned the crier on for forty-five minutes
to sell our life on the front page. How much
will we get paid
to keep our name for the movie?
  What is beneath our never-nether-suit?
They know more about us
than we are willing,
we were walking
and it was the one girl in the group
who baited. They can’t compose
on a gateway, can’t write on an opening.
Do you want this, Gabriel? You can’t take off
your shining breastplate and balance it
at the top of the pine as a star
because they will lunge their foil at your bare
honor. And without you!
Our whole room carpet-mouthed. And we?
Gabriel, we are too open, we asked
you to look at us, we will not ask again,
we will smoke
in our smoking jacket while the white rabbit
eats bits of stone out of the hay at dawn, eyes rimmed
with black like an Egyptian,
                                                       when will it snow?
If you’ve loved us in time we lay on the floor
and stop being the shoal one. Fill our mouth
with everything you can find of Mary’s, stuff objets d’art down our throat
until we’re crying because you know what language means to us.
It’s easy for you to be touched anywhere
                                                 but most people have a list
and ours is pretty long:
                           not the tip
                                                 until pain and pleasure
change sides and then
                              unlid the music box, Gabriel.
                                             We don’t need anyone to see us to a different state
from Arizona, need and want
                                             palm frond there, we get surgery there.
It’s not something you can tell—I love you, my name is Jasmine.
My name is Isabel. My name is Claudette. My name is Lydia.  Your name
                              is Gabriel.
And when they say I’ve lost them,
                                             they mean our gaze.
                                             It is the only heartache.
And when we say no, don’t you come in here they mouth why
against the glass. Brave?
                              We just bought something—overhead lights
and a knife for eight hours and scars
from armpits to center, what’s dug out, field,
                                                                 we’ll make ourselves a field, drunk,
we’ll make ourselves act, sing, you’ll pretend
                                             it’s corn in cartoons where air coexists
with the cliff, we will walk off
                              and walk until velocity and here is the moment of stillness.
We hover.
          All of our palominos frescoing out of the woods.
Posted 04/24/09
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