i have a crush on a boy in a tiny house on the hill 

he is not a real boy
in the same way
that i am
no a real boy.
no i don't mean
because i'm trans i mean because
i was born 
in a stained glass window
& god choked 
on a turkey bone
while he was making 
my feet. 
i do not know 
how to run from
the sound 
of sirens. instead
that's just how
the flowers sound to me.
i do believe
i will ever meet the boy.
the hill is the size
of a sleeping giant.
i sometimes will
send carrier pigeons up there
with little blank scrolls.
can a poem be 
an absence?
where words could live?
you might ask
how i have a crush
on a boy i've never seen
but i think that is 
exactly what desire is.
the tangible absence.
besides, i did 
see him once. 
he walked out 
onto the porch. he chopped down
a tree which was also his father.
we could run away 
together. we could
build the cloud city.
eat plums from each other's 
throats. i think he plays
an instrument. 
a lute maybe or a mandolin.
i listen closely
on days like this 
when the window is 
a drinking glass. 
my thirst becomes
a sixth ocean.
i build a boat & wait.
he is not coming
or else i am not coming to him.
the hill is a thumb.
is a burial mound.
i think the boy is 
eating fruit without me. i think
it is overripe. i think
it drips nectar 
across his hands.