1,454 Readings | 3 Ratings

I Promised Her My Hands Wouldn’t Get Any Larger

But she’s decided we need to trace them in case I
turn out to be wrong. Every morning she wakes me
with a sheet of paper. In the beginning, she stowed
all the tracings in a folder, until one day I said I’d like
to at least see where this is going, and from that point on
we hung them on the wall chronologically. When I
study them, they look back at me like busted
headlights. I wear my lab coat around the house to
make sure they know who’s observing whom. If we
can ensure records, if we can be diligent in our
testing. I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Nothing
feels smaller yet. Not her, not the kettle nor the key.
If my hands do grow, they should also be the kind
that can start a fire with just a deer in the road.
Posted 12/27/12
Previously published in Ninth Letter and Best New Poets 2012. Forthcoming in Troubling the Line: Trans and Genderqueer Poets and Poetics (EOAGH/Nightboat Books, 2013).
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