She carries the sins of her ex-husband and her father
bearing the weight of her complicit silence and denial of violations
transferring her penance through strudels, kuchhen, usually prune, and dumplings, savory.
She assumed responsibility for our care, just as she had done for my father
sheltering all four of us in a one bedroom with galley kitchen
occupying our despondent abandonment with movie marathons, all rated restricted.
She predicted my mother was never coming back to us or to our father
revealing her own resentment at the possibility of having that kind of freedom
submitting to the sum total of stubborn experiences and lack of choices, obstructions.
“I’m never sure if I have gender dysphoria or species dysphoria.”
– Pat Califia, “Identity Sedition and Pornography”
Pomosexuals: Challenging Assumptions about Gender and Sexuality
She asked me if you needed to be a member of this club. The underground room, painted a menacing lavender color, swelled with embellished somatic complaints and measured breathing. I said ” we can make our own” as she looked past me and walked away. On the way home I wrote: it’s subversive to write down your thoughts; they rob god of his agency.
This is a fire sale. Everything must go.
I thought of an intro that went something like this: I wanted their hand inside me. This was before I heard that they asked you what you like to do on Sundays. This story has no gendered subject which makes some literally nervous, like hushed admissions or overemphasizing for dramatic emphasis.
I want to ask you to imagine what it feels like when every choice you make is conscious.