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there are fat wet vines creeping into my

house through the pipes and through

the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into

my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my

tile I am present and useless like a nose torn

from a face and set in a bowl when

I saw God I used the wrong pronouns

God bricked up my mouthhole

his fists were white as gold there were

roaches in my beard now I live like a widow

every day a heave of knitting patterns

and sex toys my family speaks of me

with such pride noonesh to roghane they say

his bread is in oil I thank them for that and

for their chromosomes most of which

have been lovely I am lovely too my body

is hard and choked with juice like a plastic

throat stuffed with real grapes my turn-ons

include Ovid and fake leather my turn-

offs have all been ushered into the base-

ment I’ll drink to them and to any victory

the vines are all growing toward the foot

of my bed I am waiting for them to come

under the covers I am the only person still in

this house there is no one here to look away

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