she dealt me a quick hand

across the dim table, the

smell of stale menthol, day

old breath in a lined face,

though she hated the term

‘trans elder’, made her laugh

like gravel underfoot; spitting

words shuffling rounds, we

couldn’t help it, we held her

in this heightened esteem.

she said darl are you in or

do ya fold, punctuated with

drawl, no shame at all that

she’d aged out of the space

where people still called her

brave; girl to my left throws

down a hand and says the

magic word, we savour the

part where we still laugh in

this closed dealing coven.

pass, an admonishment, a

tapping out from this hand

and we still share knowing

looks, laugh behind loaded

glasses and sip; we carve

space from expectation, sit

here and deal with anything

but, fast game’s a good one

and outside this room don’t

we take on the house and

lose it all, but here, in this

place full of smoke there’s

no hackles left just chips

and bets none of us can

actually afford; pass again

and the pot’s swept to my

right, leaves me thinking of

this room and these people

hidden out of sight behind

doors and the kindness of

night, of this woman before

me, the face of a model ten

years before, like what’s the

deal (oh, mine?) with this

weaponised invisibility held

over our heads; passing as

the elephant in this room,

passing as a policing tool,

passing as just a man in a

dress, passing as a fucking

surrogate for status quo,

passing as a sitting down

pissing contest,

		          	passing

as maybe the only safe way

to leave the house alone. i

sit back and she chews ice

at me, reveals her hand

and smiles.