The truth of it is I don’t feel like a man or a woman
so much as a Janus-faced alien
from a Ursula K. LeGuin novel; like a radish
buried underground, plump,
and phallic; like a bearded lady king
on a fiberglass throne; like a symphony rather than
a single note;
like my body is good—I mean,
as any spare:
there’s a pleasure in it,
in doubling, pleasure heady as helium,
in being both inside and outside
a skin; in building a second
like a dam or hutch, a face
to wear like a home
whatever no longer serves me
when and if
I feel like it. I may never
remove my breasts because
in truth, I like them.
I won’t lie to prove music to you,
music you can’t hear outside my skull.
I can only be my own permission.