A more commercially viable trans man might start this with 250mg
Of testosterone suspended in refined peanut oil, an injection

Into soft tissues; might caress his scars for you at the climax
Of sunset; or else trim away gender from the bathroom mirror,

Then look at the bales of hair in the sink and apologise
To you for the something he killed. A more honest man

Would tell you how I, fourteen, dreamt of these exact hands
In the latent underside of a wave. Twenty-five, my once and future body

Fed my then-body a fruit salad, of all things, saying: life is meant to be nice,
At least once in a while. I wrote he looked like my brother, if he had had an easier

Time. This body, still learning about what thrives on this planet,
What’s smothered in its depths. My once and future body cackled

As my then-body tried to find anything to do— learning to tie
Cherry stems with my tongue, smearing my makeup off with oil,

Taking photos of all that greasy pink and grey smudged
Along my cheeks. Wrote I’m teaching myself to be monstrous.

My once and future body, sandwiching himself between me
And my ex-lovers, failing to announce how any of us

Might like to be touched. This blue planet and its bones— tens and hundreds
Of millions of years, chaunacops fish walking five thousand feet below,

And still people snag on my soft voice and chest hair. Imagine
Trying to make me apologise for killing off some “girl” and for not burying

The body deep enough. My governing body tries to stop other bodies
From recognising this body as a real, respiring body.

What is more human than being baffled and enraged
By your own kind? Eight, dumbstruck by Drew Barrymore,

Diamante cheekbone, exposed dip of breast—
Writing her name with a shuddering hand, followed by I want to

Be her as my once and future body laughed and laughed. He sang
When I sang, then buggered off when I played the tape back. Silence

When someone told me to be trans is to know— to want, not enough.
A more graceful man might acquiesce now you ask me to teach you

This body’s tactics. A more radical man might invent new joys
To taunt you. My once and future body, sprouting a beard in dreams

That made the townspeople shun me. He no longer
Feels like a trick, but a breath I fight not to forget.