Only Thing

The only thing I could do

to have her feel safe with me

was to have her be the “top”

often times.

Otherwise

the world, the feelings and

emotions

seemed all too much for her

in moments.

So I handed her the edges,

brought her to them,

took her near and above the abyss.

I’m honored to have been

that person for her,

that vulnerable and

delightfully feminine

woman.

I know she needed that.

She needs my ass, my laugh

and my moans.

We’re connected always.

I was there with her,

rushing into heaven

as she broke

a lot of her models

of oppression and shame.

She’s gone from me.

I’m gone from her.

But I’m glad she knows liberation

now

and that special Angel Land place

only two women can go.

Maybe we had an even

more special version of it?

A libertine & a perfectionist

caught

on the tumultuous earth.

Who’s to say?

All Come Down

When it finally all came down

I was in bed

feeling shitty on a

Saturday morning

after I’d said shitty things to you

the night before

and Fleetwood Mac’s

“As Long As You Follow”

came on the radio.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I realized you would not

follow me.

And you were never going to.

I’d spent the relationship trying

to get you to follow me into love

and the many vibrant colors of love

and when you didn’t so regularly

it angered me, it felt unjust.

And so it all hit me that morning;

we are over,

we will never be again,

we were never meant to

really be…

and I broke out bawling,

sobbing, uncontrollably,

the way a child cries,

deeply and forlorn, abandoned,

alone in the empty house,

the empty morning,

with just the sunlight and

the stillness

in the bed we used to make love

to each other, gasp to gasp.

The familiar loneliness of a transwoman

with a cisgender woman.

Except this time,

not only loneliness

but nothingness too.

Family Of Transition

The family of my transition
I will not grow old with.
I may likely know them
for a long time,
but they will not be family.
Though
on the walls of my home
I will still hang the artwork
their young daughters
gave me to celebrate my
ascending vibrancy in the world.
For one year,
one year alone,
they loved and accepted me,
they found joy, excitement, exuberation
in me being in the world,
and I consider that a great honor
to have had that effect on them,
to have
received their celebration.

They’ll find someone new in the future
to draw pictures for
and give Christmas gifts to,
to get cuddles before bedtime,
and my transgender transition
will continue
in its solitary and communal way
that no one can relate to,
yet everyone becomes a part of
its story.

The ghost voices of these young girls
will always give color to
my woman soul.
My woman soul will be colorful
thanks to the sparks of their love.

Messenger Messenger Satellite

I trust when the autumn
goes away
with
your feelings
my feelings

past the Italian bakery
the pets in windows
the warmth in coats
and scarves on cold Sunday mornings
when your eyes like
crystals
under the million miles of sun

I see the blue
the new civilizations
the new ways of living
the clean clean consoles
and the ambient white light

I trust the past has melted

I sit in the den

The brush fields of the south
now the purgatory of
northern cities
and messenger messenger
satellites
turning high above


from Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)

At The Axis Of Night

When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Married To A Richard I Could No Longer Love

Richard leaves water
scattered
all over the bathroom counter.

Richard combs his hair
in a way I wish he wouldn’t.

When Richard opens cereal
he leaves the top of the box open,
forgets to close it all the way.

One time for my birthday
Richard forgot what I wanted.
Then when I asked him,
“Richard, could you hold me?”,
he had the nerve to say,
“Yeah, just a second, hun.”

Every time Richard uses his fork on
the butter
I hate him deeply for this,

hate him,
hate him,
hate him.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin