6-pack 

in terms of masculinity my father 
measures himself by the holes in his belt.
he only has one & he brags when he
has to cut a new hole
for them to fit. the deck outside
where him & my uncle used to drink together
is falling apart. the steps collapse one by one
& turn into hawks. he buys beers
by the six-pack. counts them. hides them.
treats them like his sons. he has 
nine of us or maybe only three
or maybe only two depending on 
when you ask him. if it is late & no one else
is awake he might say, "i love you."
if everyone is around he might
break a bottle & chase his gender
around the yard until it makes him sick.
when i first came out i was ridiculous
& had mirages of my father teaching me
something about being a man. 
he is probably the last person i want
to learn about a gender from. 
i sometimes look at both him
& my mom & wonder if they would
be happier trans. honestly i think 
most people would be happier trans
but i'm biased. there used to be this razor commercial
where a dad teaches his trans son to shave. 
i watched it & cried even though that's not
what i want. the script is sometimes
so heavy with longing you can't help
but notice your lacks. i want to see my father 
without his gender. i want to see him 
at the end of a six-pack, whirling with
a storm-laden night sky. this is where
i used to be so afraid as a child. when he 
no longer had his daylight eyes
& he looked so lost. i want to be 
lost with him. i want to teach him
about masculinity. about how & where
we can bend. i want to paint his nails.
i want to break beer bottles. shards
of amber glass. i worry that someday
the whole deck will up & leave like a flock
of elephants. then the house would
be bare & it would just be us
& the windows & nine empty bottles.
one, my own, with a little boy inside.