“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.