This is a poem about myself to myself. As a trans* person, a gender variant person, a genderqueer person, I experience varying degrees of body dysphoria on the regular. I do yoga virtually every night, alone and in the dark of my bedroom, which helps me reconnect with what my body is, the beauty of its limits and its realities. It’s a simple and purely physical experience, this ritual of coaxing my body into shapes. That experience is what I’ve tried to capture in this poem.
I am lucky enough to be in love with and be loved by two absolutely fantastic people who, through a weird quirk of coincidence, share the same birthday – February 26. And I, through a less optimal quirk of coincidence, am spending February 26 in a different state than either of them.
I rarely write poems, and it’s rarer still that I share them, but today’s a day that calls for something a little rare.
It’s funny it took us this long to do it
because (I think) when people think of marriage
of being married
When they think about it with hope with sweetness
they are thinking (I think) of us.
When I think of marriage with hope with sweetness
I can’t imagine that any two people have ever been so thoroughly (hopefully sweetly) married
as you and me.
We’ve been together since we were babies.
I’ve been in love with you so long I don’t know what it would be to be out of it.
I’m going to tell you something. It’s selfish and I’m telling you anyway:
I hope I die before you do.
I don’t want my life broken into pieces –
I don’t want to sort out how to live a life not shared with you
So I hope I croak first
because that way my life is always With Jon.
You are less a rock than a diving board.
You are kinetic energy
You are a force
You launch me up and out into the bright and yawning world
Out into the empty air where it’s anything but safe
And I fall and crash and sink
But the great thing is that when I crawl out of the water you’re still there
Ready to do it to me all over again.