Poems

Angel Of Color

The Angel fell upon me.

And how she laid across me

she looked like a fallen angel.

So I raised her up, uplifted her.

Her breasts met

the morning light.

God saw this and God created

color.

The blue of day was born.

God gasped, God was overwhelmed.

God gave up.

God gave the colors and the day

back to all of us.

So as the angel breathed out

she shared sacredness with me

and everyone else.

Knowing we together on that

morning had reformed God,

the Angel gave me a dress of

dazzling color

that I wore to

Autumn’s banquet that evening.

She wants me to look like

the changing leafs.

I am a changer and I am

her woman.

Poems

The Wrong And Wrongly Done

I opened up someone

who should not be opened up.

She’s many thousands of

years,

maybe millions of years away

from being ready to be

opened up.

But I did it anyways

cuz that’s what I do;

flippant, curious, voracious.

And light and love

came violently screaming out

of her and pouring into her.

A being misunderstanding

their self,

misunderstanding my being.

Afterwards,

the oak trees called me

to them,

asked me what I had done and

why did I do it.

I said

it was for carnal earthen reasons.

And they conveyed,

oh star stuff Nova,

you still have so many ways

to grow and so many things

to learn.

Poems

One Transwoman’s Way

I will grow old and die.

My body might slowly

lose its life and energy.

I will lose my beauty and

my youth.

My revival won’t go on

forever.

I will be in pain, be tired,

feel ragged and worn out.

Or

I could die sooner, from a

sudden illness, accident, or

heart attack.

But however this inevitability

happens,

I will have lived life on my terms,

with joy, believing in kindness

and leaning into other

people’s joy

regardless of what passes

around and within me

and how my fate peters out.

Poems

Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

Poems

A Full Moon Cometh

She’s coming.

The full moon is coming.

In the forest is a vast multitude

of love and beingness.

And so I smoke my cigarette

under the trees

to give them extra carbon

because she’s coming,

the full moon is coming.

God, here she comes.

Yes, she is coming.

Poems

Born Male

I was born male.

She looks at them on my thighs.

Soft brushy freckles.

She likes them.

Her lush lush lips go upon them.

She says I’m such a lovely, lovely

woman.

I giggle.

She kisses my soft, white legs more.

So I gasp and I moan.

This feels right. It feels succulent.

It feels more appropriate than

how I was originally made.

So I turn and I turn it on

more and more.

I burn and she melts me.

We melt together

in midnight and morning sun.

Poems

What I Remember

What I remember from her
is just something visceral.
Something in the body.
Raw. Ancient.
Long life. Sentient. Awake.
Star stuff.
I know we were a shitshow.
Bad words and hurtful things
said, done, and felt
to each other.
But somehow all I remember
is powerful, visceral, psychic,
physical, soulful
feelings.
Well, just a feeling.
One feeling, one unified feeling.
It feels very similar to
sunshine on your skin,
on an early October morning
in Texas,
in autumn of the northern
hemisphere
on Earth.

Do you know the feeling I’m talking
about?
When the sun touches you and
it feels your skin,
it fills your soul.

Poems

Lines

Don’t give me that line.
Don’t.
Then you might push me up against
the wall.
Or, I might push you up against
the wall.
We twist and turn, exchange places.
Two kittens playing.
Bites on the neck.
Gentle, trustful, suspenseful,
pull of the hair.
Lips and fingers to the nipples,
teasing brushes.
Two artists brushing each other
with passion and lust.
Isn’t it best when artists
burn with passion and lust?
Walk through the warm light
of your side parlor room,
love that lamp light loving
your riveting figure,
bring the gold mirror,
bring me your beautiful nose,
tilt those hips.
Give me that line again, babe.
Give it to me.
Inhale. Breathe. I like when you pause.
Then I feel that wet silk on my
ancient concubine hands.
And we twist, and we twist.

Poems

Some Days Discarded

She knows I’m beautiful now.

Well, becoming more beautiful.

Though she doesn’t care anymore.

She let that kind of feeling go.

But she knows I’m having that

look these days

that others see and think

I’m a delight to look at and experience.

I might bring lust into a room.

There could be lust.

She could see my dark eyes

and my long eyelashes drawn across

the suspended air in stillness, calling

something sultry and sensual,

that dark hair majesty,

there with my cheekbones,

drawing my naughty eyes out

and shining on the naughty thoughts

of other women I see. Who go thinking.

They see me.

I’m seen.

I’m out.

It’s becoming and uncoming

in very much a way it never has before.

She knows I’m beautiful now.

But she doesn’t care anymore.

She can’t.

It would stop her world

and the kind of afternoons

she needs with herself.

Poems

In A Hotel Room In Albuquerque

In a hotel room in Albuquerque
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to various things you said
speaking in my mind,
like a radio tuning in…

Initially there is static,
my mind is groggy,
the words are unclear,
but soon the more into
consciousness I awake
I can clearly hear:

“Women don’t have penises.”
“Women don’t dance like that.”
“Women don’t have those kind
of thoughts.”
“A woman wouldn’t wear that.”
“I don’t think women do things
like that.”

Then I get up.
Go into the stale bathroom of
my hotel room.
Grab my pink metal tweezers
and continue my tenacious ritual
of plucking out the remnants of
my beard hair, one by one,
as I stand there for an hour
underneath the nauseating
fluorescent lighting,
plucking probably 800 hairs
and plotting out my plan to
move to Berlin to become a
Sapphic lesbian, woman-only,
sensual and tender,
feminist healer prostitute.