Writing poems about my previous life as a joke lesbian (my ex wife and I used to joke that we were a dyke couple. Little did we know). What a delight to remember those times. What a weirdness to continue to live in that world, in my memories and in my time and breath.
Strange to think about that previous life now, 10 years out of it. My marriage and my time as a sad boy doesn’t feel real at all. They feel like it was someone else’s life. And now here I am, almost as old as my marriage was. I am 9 years old in trans years. I am 46 years old. I am myself. And that is a blessing. And that is a delight.
The Right Way
We used to joke we were dykes, laughed in
the way nervous virgins laughed, who knew
each other with hands and mouths but not
the only right way, the way for holy marriage
and children. I wanted to wear her bras. She
wanted to toss her breasts into the ocean, watch
as they floated away, islands of guilt and anger.
I wanted to be one of the girls, hide my beautiful
face under the shame beard, drew her hand away
from my crotch and up to my nipples when we tried
to fuck the right way, the only acceptable way.
Years later, meeting for breakfast, new pronouns
and dresses and overalls, their top surgery scars,
my tender nipples in my own bra, my naked face
shining with a real smile finally, we laughed on how
we were dykes now, my girlfriend giggling, their wife
that I pushed them towards blushing, our new way
of fucking the right way, the way it always felt right.