Life

I’ve come to accept that I will live. Four

maelstrom months, storming episode. Palate,

press me like popsicle sticks like doctor’s

tongues. I accept that airplanes don’t crash as

often as I’d hoped. Inheritance bi-

polar; disordered grandmother’s first gift.

I spoke to the manager. Left the psych

hospital in time to vote. The gist: it’s

terminal. The airport, featuring me

patted down again. Anomaly in

my groin area. I get to choose the

gender of the agent. In the orange

face of reality/death, I choose:

So

Alright. I used to be an envelope.

Sex overflow. Bearded, purple lipstick,

making out with the Eagle’s Friday night

dancer. Then: In the port-a-potty line

at Gay Asstrology in leopard-print

heels, Botticelli tank top, light-denim

booty shorts: I found out what it was to

be a work of art. Yes, I said, when I

would’ve thought I was saying no. The way

I was looked at: a sculpture: Venus de

Milo. Have I uttered a word since? Long

years in the weight room; now I go for walks.

Jesus, so I’m told, wept; Thirty, I was,

weeping, drunk. Am I a woman or what?

ABOUT:

Josephine Defaye (she/her) is a writer, educator, and founder of Trans/gressive Writers’ Workshop. Find her work in New Words Press, The Rebis, Gulf Stream Magazine, Resurrection Magazine, Soap Ear, and on Medium @josiedefaye.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Samantha Leah --- I Choose Me