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.