the trees are transitioning.
they are not calling their parents 
& they are not asking 
if their voices sound real. spitting flowers
at the sidewalk. some are taking hormones
& asking others if they look different yet.
i go outside to join them carrying baskets
of my clothes for them to choose from.
hats & jeans & ruffled dresses.
i help dress them. three hats here.
a velvet skirt. a boot on a branch. 
wishing i had a burrow i could have
climbed into where only rabbits
could see what a gender could do to a person.
i'm at the point where all i can think of 
is dressing. what shapes are living
beneath my skin. when i hear "man"
i picture triangles. woman, circles.
myself, a rhombus.
the trees are walking down to the park
in their new clothes. they want
to wash their faces in the creek. 
i used to take off my shoes by the edge 
& wade in. my baptism of birds & bees.
my gender would wash off & i would 
have to spend all night gluing it back
into place. the trees decide 
they want more than this. they want
faces & lips. i tell them that gender
is not housed in the face but
in the fingers & they already have those. 
sun across their shoulders.
they give me leaves. cough up mulberries.
talk about flying to another country
where a surgeon will know 
how to dig the gender they want
out of their bark. we all are doing 
our best gender at any given moment.
except for me. i am tired 
& watching the trees makes me feel exhausted.
i tell the trees my gender is just
over-worked. i want to bury it 
in the yard at their feet. maybe they can
pull it up through their roots.
make use of all my night aches & headlights.
i tell them the best thing i have ever done
was be trans. they lift me up
like a collared shirt. put blossom 
in my hair. i feel my gender again
like a knot of green. a bird's nest.
a beautiful little something. then, gone. 

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