as his music hits my chest. I watch him close his eyes

and rest.

MY GENDER IS THE UNDOING OF GENDER

I wasn’t always the pansy I am now. I used to have a perm,

and no one on Earth is tougher than a butch with a perm—

especially when wearing a backward baseball cap,

mascara, and a muscle shirt—wallet chain bouncing

off my quadricep. Military boots and a look in my eye

that said, Give me a white flag and I’ll use it for nothing

but checking my oil and wiping my sweat. I drove

a Z24 Chevy. The muffler built to sound like a motorcycle

with a smoker’s cough. I cried only in private and spent

not a single second alone. My best friends were barstools

and jocks. My shoulder blades sharp as my tongue,

which was in a perpetual state of fuck off—

but the day I got my first buzz cut, something

or everything changed. I looked in the mirror

and my tough relaxed. My body so at ease

my eyes could no longer hold the flood back.

Mascara raced off my face to water my fist—

which was no longer a fist but a carnation

in full bloom. Soon, I traded my car for a bicycle

with a basket, which I rode to the craft store

to buy thread to stitch fabric from the clothes

I was wearing into dolls I’d give as gifts

(too true to be believable, I know, but it is).

At the bar, Budweiser in hand, my pinky finger

ballerina’d into the air. I looked like a princess

sipping tea. About to chase my finger back inside,

I sung, Good god, Andrew, let that sweet child

runfree. Andrew—it was the first time

I’d said it out loud—and I’d say more now

but it’s all quite simple: I became this me

so I could finally be the fairy I always was.

I cut my hair and grew out my feelings

instead. If someday I have a mustache,

I know I’ll be comfortable wearing a dress.

And if I ever have a beard, I’m certain

I’ll be the prettiest girl I’ve ever been.

SPELLING BEE WITHOUT STINGER

I love myself

is often spelled

g-o-o-d-b-y-e

THE NIGHT SHIFT

They offer me the job on the spot,

citing my previous work in construction

which I’d almost left off my resume,

figuring jackhammers, drill bits,

and wrenches are not tools one can use

working at an at-risk-youth home for girls.

There’s a lot here falling apart, the house

psychologist says, after a clothesline

of a girl busts into our interview and falls

to the floor, tearing her baby blue press-on

nails through the carpet. Her mother missed

visiting day for the third week in a row.

The creases of the girl’s worn dress

are ironed so perfectly I know that, this week,

she was certain her mother would come.

I’m in the darkest year of my twenties

and applied for the night shift

in an attempt to trick myself into believing