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.

The Water You Last Drank From

The water you last drank from
remains
by my bed.
I will leave it there
as I let go of you
over this next season of my life.
It will evaporate,
turn to air,
and travel very far from here
over the next million years.
And that was
always going to happen to us
as well.
Though it was quite miraculous
how the infinite configurations
placed us together in this
infinite ocean,
soul to soul,
body to body,
soft skin lain on soft skin
in morning sunshine,
vaporous breathing to the
heavens
where once upon a time
you had reached for
that water you last drank from
for the final time
in the aftermath of something,
something riveting, tumultuous,
healing, and laid bare for
the other to see.

I see now and look over at
what will be gone soon,
what will be gone as Autumn
and the hearth fires start up
again.

Pressed

Press me up against the wall
fair lady
femme dyke
I’m your power bottom
forming my wrists over
testosterone bones
industrial wasteland
I’m here now
watching the flowers blossom
Smell a sweet scent
across the field
Wait for that succulent nectar
I sculpt words for your hands
to hold
my cupped, bloomed ass
in that way that just does it
gets it done
revolutionizes my soul and breath
and brings the twilight
down upon our breasts
chest to chest
tongue to tongue
against the wall

When I was pressed I blossomed
When life began demanding
manhood of me
there was nothing left
Vanished and vacant
You rescued me and gave me soil

Asleep And Alive

When you

are asleep

I go and

look at

pretty girls

behind a

bar counter

and watch as they

slice the air

with the curves of

their bodies.

And when I am

softly buzzed

I go home,

roll up a joint

and smoke it,

then drive out to that

country road

that heads northeast

out of town

and blast

Pink Floyd’s

“Great Gig In The Sky”

while I think about

my dead cat

and remember how

he was there

to watch me

transition into

a woman

the last year

he was alive.

My Forests & My Wizards

My forests and my wizards
lead me in my days.
The living network
and the Dead.
My days are bound before
the sunshine’s chords,
the spirit clouds,
the respirations of oaks.
The calls, the draws,
herald my fate,
their listenings and their vibrations,
become my tongue,
my way, my steps forward.
My heart is like the forest’s roots
and my breath is the endless vapor
of the unliving,
their expanse across all time,
it shapes and fills my
now-woman body,
and rings my now-woman soul.
These curves
do the work
they were meant to do
… thanks to their conception
from the woods,
the lichens,
and the moss
as my ghost loves
hummed on.

Bleuets

In the time
that you loved me
I had done the worst things,
but you continually
asked me,
you called me to love you.
I was a failure many times,
messy, immature,
I wrecked relationships,
broke my heart,
broke many other hearts,
I lied,
mad bad decisions,
treated myself and others poorly.
And yet, over and over,
you crawled on top of me,
butted your furry little head
on my chin
and said,
“I am here, right here,
I am here to love you”.

You
taught me
how
to
love.
You — were a cat.
And you,
are a mother f@#%ing wizard.
You — persist.

It Is

It is to be said
It needs to be said

Women can love each other
It is “ok”
It is forthright
a way of the Universe
A force and an expression
A form of magic
Very wonderful, applicable,
practical and beautiful magic

Sleeping beneath a tree
I have seen us
as women in love with each other
Grappling, entwined and carnal
The tree has seen us this way
Continues to see us
And wants to see us

Two women loving each other
In branches enveloping
In giving shade and shelter
In standing by for the
ways and days of solitude
and growth

Two women loving each other

Angel Land Municipal Airport

At Angel Land Municipal Airport
the lovers come and go.
Some die.
Some die in our hearts.
The sexually immature ones
leave
and take the train and
their train wrecks
back to their competitive
partriachal pursuits.
Boring sex continues chasing
its tail through the sky.
Where is your angel again?
No, where has she gone?
Sex is a marketplace of desire.
Got it.

The white women cash in
on their privilege.
Oh mommy and daddy.
Wrong, they never cash in.
They protect their interests.
They struggle with generosity
at these crossroads,
rather runways, of mortality.
They struggle, so they leave
Angel Land
in the middle of the night,
a red eye flight,
before those who know them
and those who see them
can actually see them.
This airport is tricky,
wedged between earth and heaven.

Now, where is your angel again?

When You Had A Tumor

When you had a tumor
I went down to the giant
wizardly oak trees
along the Trinity River
in the center of Fort Worth
and I prayed.
I told the trees there was
someone special to me
who was sick, who needed help,
whom I hoped they would heal.
This was early Spring of 2018
and the trees still had not grown
their leaves or buds.
The trees were dreaming still.
In their dream space
I saw your sister who had passed
and she stood between portals,
showing how time was
multidimensional
and we could move through
the portals.
I envisioned the rings inside the trees
and that through them
we could go back in time
and there in the past,
heal your body,
or at least take it on a different
path of cellular development.
I felt them. Asked them.
They guided me.
This was my first time
encountering the wizardry of trees.
I took two giant acorns
from their basin
and kept them as talismans.
I believe that not only did
these wizard trees
optimize your cellular configuration
but they opened a path in time
that led to our golden years of love,
living out at the country houses together,
watching sunsets,
chasing fire flies through the big field
under moonlight,
holding you like a baby in my arms
in the oak forest,
playing countless guitar songs to you
that you always meowed to,
and you watching me turn from a druid
into a druidess.

The Herald Of Angel Land

Angel Land is not a place.

Angel Land is found.

Be a woman, then it’s pronounced.

The love of women.

Holding them. All of them.
All forms. All shapes. All bodies.
All colors.

And to be held by them.
From behind.
Chest to chest.
On our sides.
Quietly, judgment is held
when talking,
no judgment.
Just sunshine coming in
from the window
onto the softest of skin
in the morning
and warming.

Angel Land is in life,
in these hours,
on this Earth.

Angel Land turns the eras.
Calls all angels.
We are gathered.
God is coming.
We come.
We replace God,
the fatherly god.
We give God to everyone
who sees us,
hears us,
hates us,
embraces us.

Angel Land is the era.