self-portrait as cisgender 

even i am not sure what image 
i am supposed to give you. is this 
me as the child holding girlhood like
a balloon or is this me as a
boy halloween costume? i sometimes
imagine a girl version of myself 
who never turned gender 
on its back. i probably have kids.
i probably teach them to lie
just like me. sometimes, when the moon
is full of unhusband myself & eat
mulberries from a tree up the block.
i do not think it is a bad life. just as small
as my own. bigger in some ways. 
collapsed in others. maybe i have unshaven legs.
maybe i wear bras until the wire
bores through the fabric. lines on my body
for a trapeze artist to travel. i am more afraid
of the boyhood self. the one 
with a pocketknife & a love for winter. 
his blood like museum doors. 
a record player in his room he plays
for another boy until he too is an airplane. 
does his father love him? does he 
manage to keep his gender despite it all?
he is prone to anger. he does not bother with pears.
i find his knuckles sometimes beneath mine.
that is the thing about my trans gender;
the before is always like the hanged-man.
a portrait is never a portrait but a portal.
the girl-jar me is on a swing. her husband
does not know how to cook & neither does she.