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He Was Born A Girl
Don’t delay, come under me in
this soil, let the lid fall on us and every light
dissipate as phobias and fetishes go hand
in hand as this bloated face watches us.
Allow her hair to cascade in a tangle
with filed nails; from the crook of her toes
at the end, she is my girl,
my dearly departed.
I come to the river, same tongue in her mouth say
forgive me, father, let my belly bulge, eyes rot, and
ants nibble away my skin. Let the worms eviscerate
the gut, oh sweet sound of bone crunching,
as fish chew through my calcium deposits.
What am I to you, father? What was I?
Forget me. Like tears in your eyes. Forget me. Like
fish-head you’ve cradled me in your arms
told me to remember that even weed grows cold,
and piss can be drunk like blood.
I know those turquoise earrings and
mink scarf, these calico bracelet in a coffer
to take home. But when his children ask me
where Papa is, I whisper the truth, my child
I spread wildflowers in the current. I saw him wear stiletto
high hills—undergarments that do not fit him
little ones, see them in the river, touch the name your
father provided for us, Lily.
Lily, in my mouth.
Lily, we can rest now. Like the tomb
poking out through the mud.
How cold and hard that name sounds
under my tongue, the rustle of maggots
squirming in our bodies and turning
us into flies.