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 Purse My Mama Bought Me

The purse my Mama
bought me,
I carry it like a teddy bear.
I’ve kept it for too long.
It’s actually uncool.
It’s not the greatest purse.
Wait, hold on there Nova,
let’s be fair and objective;
it is
pretty damn functional
and being black leather,
it is fairly versatile.
If I’m honest,
Mom did a pretty good job
picking out and giving me
my first purse
as a forty-five year old
now-woman.
I know some women
my age no longer have
their mom around
or they might not have
a great relationship with
their mom,
and well, my mom hasn’t been
exactly exemplary
as I’ve transitioned my gender,
but I do truly love, respect,
and admire her,
and she did give me a solid,
perfect first purse.
And so I cling to and keep up
with this bastard like it is
my favorite teddy bear.

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

The Smell Of Pleasure

Because of the female
hormones
I take
my male-born genitalia
smell like
female genitalia.
Now I’m talking about
that pure kind of smell,
that carnal,
appetizing and enticing
kind of smell,
that woman flower,
the kind that makes you
want to lick, eat, savor,
breathlessly lost in the joy
of producing
soul-electrifying pleasure
for your girlfriend
on a morning when you
both have off work or
maybe on a morning
when you’re waiting
to go on vacation
without the kids
and you find yourselves
devouring the womanly
landscapes of each other.
That smell.
That earthen cream smell.

Just in case you were wondering.
Just in case you get any ideas.
Just in case you think
for a moment I might actually
be a woman.
Just in case you’re suddenly
turned on
and want to give me pleasure.
Just in case you’ve ever
desired women before.

I am here.

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.

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?

Half As A Person

Half a person, I live to be.

Never a daughter. Not a wife.
Not a land owner.
Not a mother.

Once a son.

Then
I turned away as a father.

I can’t stop what the sun sees

half in the mirror,
always half is the mirror.

The other side, holy side,
effervescence, the spirits.

Whole to my cat,
the little sprittlemites.

Born to be shamanic… supersonic.

Two parts are those oak trees,
pollinator and pollinated.

But me,
in the land of people and cities
and big box stores
selling merchandise from China;

I live as half a person.
Vanished and thriving.
Voiceless, unseen,
but I guess I get to be pretty,
sometimes,
depending on the beholder.

Inquiries About My Genitals

On the day
we signed the contract
on a house that we’re hoping
to live in for the next 20 years
and raise her girls together,
she started by asking if
I was still open to, still considering
getting a vagina.

She said it was confusing to hear
me recently say that
I’m starting to be secure with
being a woman and having a penis
,
my belief
that I can be a woman and
still have a penis.
She nodded in agreement,
then furled her brow, but…
but there was something else.
True, yes, she said.
But it is incongruent to see me
as a woman, for me to be a woman now
,
which she assured me
she experiences me as,
and then for me to have a penis.
Those are not two things that
normally go together
… her words.
She continued, having something
inside her she needed to share.
She bumbled awkwardly with her
words at first.
Something she was uncomfortable
or a little embarrassed to share.
So I softly cajoled her to get it out.
Finally, she shared:
There’s no other way to put it
that doesn’t sound crass,
I want vagina.
I want to experience pussy
.
She breathed heavy and dreamily,
sighing.
So yeah, maybe that’s yours
when or if you have one.
I’d like to experience that.
Or, or, or.
Maybe, maybe
it’s another woman
.
She stopped, paused,
trying to find her words.
I mean, we’ve talked about
non-monogamy, but never ended
up there.
Yeah, maybe that’s something I’d
like to experience
.

I confirmed with her I understood.
That I really like pussy.
That no, in fact, I love pussy.
That it’s wonderful.
I get it.

Then I stood there thinking in my
mind;
why did she bring this up at the
end of the day on a day when we
made a big commitment to
each other,
why then?
I don’t know.
Was it because of
our big commitment now
she was more comfortable
being honest with me?
And maybe she wouldn’t
understand this,
but my mind wondered
back to a couple days ago,
and I was thinking about how
these two douchebag guys
in a bar
invited me over to their table
to flirt with me and then
cut to the chase
and asked me about my genitals
and my plans for getting
a vagina.

I guess these inquiries
about my genitals are happening
now
because I’m finally
starting to look like a woman
and maybe me having a penis
doesn’t add up to folks.

Yeah, it’s good to know;
I’m finally a woman.
I’ve finally arrived.
Welcome to the world, girl.

Anything A Man Could Do For A Woman

After he was done
he stood over me
growling and said
I was a good slut.
I was mostly naked
with my panties yanked
down around my ankles
and my negligée half off.
I felt barren and exposed
and wanted to cry.
I knew this wasn’t what
I wanted.
I felt a foreign and shameful
inauthenticity growing inside me.
It hit me full force in the stillness
after he left.
I’ve got to now,
He said moments after finishing
and lefty briskly without
exchanging any niceties.
Then
I cried and sobbed in the emptiness
of a Chicago apartment
built for a four or five person family.
The ice and snow outside
melted, merged, and ashened
from all the cars going by.
I believed I needed
a man’s masculinity
to affirm my femininity.
That is not true.
The most noble masculinity
I’ve ever experienced
originated from within
the curves of a woman.
And I find that more affirming
of my femininity and all femininity
than any man or
anything a man could do
for a woman.

I consider masculinity to be
the efficient ability to compartmentalize or
contain emotions,
while femininity
is the ability to swim
within an ocean of emotions.
I swim with women now.

Pussy Fever In Technicolor

I have such pussy fever
but I am loyal.
So many passing women,
in all their infinitely
different energies and beauties,
turn into constellations
that mesmerize me and
I dream beneath their skies,
dreaming deep and soulful breaths
for fleeting, passing moments.
This woman with thick arms.
This one with an afro.
This one who speaks with conviction.
This one speaking soft and cool.
This one with perfect hips.
This one with rose-carved lips.
This is a new season for me.
An era with new eyes.
With the eyes of a woman now
I believe in and lust women
more than ever before.
Believe all that we have to live for.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.
So you, my suave faced, buxom love,
you get the best version of me.
The best I’ve ever been.
The dreamiest of my heart
and the loveliest of my love.
I’ve told you this before.
This is why I eat your pussy
as if you and I are in heaven.
I see you sad, I see you angry.
I see you amused AND forthright.
Broken AND driven.
Exhausted AND sultry.
I want you AND THEN I want you.
Perfect FOR me. Humanly imperfect.
Tender and blue eyed,
honey kissed nipples.
Speaking at a conference.
Folding laundry.
Bringing me a bagel.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.