Three Poems

Tasting of Hurricane

At sixteen, he hammers

black stones

to fit over breasts,

to bless the new wine

tasting of hurricane.

Gender, to be honest,

was a smack down

of the sad plum

of one color

without its own bowl.

Well, he skinned it,

and it bled.

He too—

purple wolf blood.

Trans-Boy Rising

Hair chopped short

as it will get.

The risen boy

practices forgetting

as the pilgrim does.

He is a vocabulary

of starlings and salt.

Trans Ghost

Between your legs

a ghost

mounted by the wrong ghosts.