“Here she is” they say of my body.
I lifted my breasts into my clothing this morning.
I say. I am a man for all weathers. A man
for all withers. You said: The horse is loose.
I capital I capital I start these sentences in my
head on the night I have an existential crisis
about my gender. I am a man because I think
I am a man. I am in this body of hips and
that wet cave between my legs. You say your
father is a woman. I say she makes sense. I’m
a woman but no one takes these breasts seriously.
There’s only so far I can get in this. Men want me
to be a woman. You want me to be a woman. I am
the praying mantis destroyer of worlds and you can’t
explain why you want to be devoured. Acting out
woman in this woman shape is standing on the
ground while people fly around me. I am a bird of
cheeping and plumage. No one said a word about
flying. Is this a telescope of longing? Am I upside
down and my brain transforms the image? It’s all
in the bricks. It’s me the plasterer, the decorator,
the twin of my twin. I am the grand misogynist
behind the curtain, my cunt a billow of satin lining.
Or I’m just kidding myself sweetly. Where to now
with this wilting self I’ve kept in a jar? See me as a
woman-man shape. See me as I back flip back into
myself. See me as I disappear when I can’t hold the
ideas inside me. Daily, I am a woman climbing default.
I am a man
1 November 2018