when trans goes out of style

I’ll have no need to fear

giving up my name to that

persxn @ the gates

of our shared holding pen, on guard

duty for good behavior,

crotch exposed as if to compensate.

Once upon a passport marked

me feasible

even foreseeable.

Now I’m simply spoken of

in puréed grammar

only in the passive voice.

Child has been born by woman  ––

sun has by rain been shrouded. Mist

aches were made, and such.


When trans goes out of style

I will begin to think my body

as a proper life –– that is, an egg-

timer, flipped and finite. The last

to know our gender-

jargon will make up a pronoun

no one can pronoun

ce, and it will fade unspoken.

We’ll all id as evidence

exclusively. Then I’ll fear

far more than all the missing

deadlined books about myself

all those special issues

which declined me

tolerantly. In fact

there will be no books at all.

Period. No one will read

anything they shouldn’t read,

and even all the street-signs

stripped bare to shape.

Each person knows already

just where s/he is going.