honeydunce

My new doctor asks me
About my mother,
And my father,
Separately
As they should be
But
Her emphasis is with my matching gender
And not
On the one who raised me.
There is no room to correct
And usually
I am the first to do so
Object
Like the worst wedding you could think of
Or be at
Some stranger marrying the very love of your life
Something like that I am
A gunshot
To amend
The misunderstood
About such things.
But this time
I am tired
And the bus made me especially depressed
The lack of people
The abundance of seats
The sound of a city
Slipping by
Right under our floating seated bodies
This time
The doctor seems happier to believe
I am like a knot with the womb’s owner
But I am not
we
Have long since been
Unraveled and
There are days I might tell you
Something is most definitely missing
In me
But
Most of the time
I am just growing around the space
Throwing things in
To hear them never hit.
There is no end
To what we never know
There is no alibi
For what was never there
And I am feet and I am arms
And I have this breath so constant
That I pretend
To hardly own it but
Truth is truth
And when I sleep
The chest still rises
And I cling to what I miss about her
Because it’s all I have
Some loose stumbled memories
Of thigh tops and loud laughter
I could tell the exact
Voltage of her anger
By the way she walked
Always hard
But the stomping might vary
She might
Throw me a smile before she
Tosses another wedding ring
Over the cliff behind the house
I hold onto that
Even the awful must be gathered,
If just to be
Kept