By Rickey Laurentiis
via the Poetry Foundation
Do I change?
Do I go the—as you say—whole way?
The breast, a predicament of treatment:
Free Will,
It seems, be more than just the crow’s zigzag
In the wind,
But a thing like breasts, it hangs
There, even in the mind,
Behind the muscle’s freeze,
Homogenously patient for its sister—the breasts,
I mean; the Will, I was saying; but it seems I am
The crow, the same flying
Inside so many green and ruder choices.
Trans, a choice
Written on my body. And I’m allowed.
Trans, a fecund decision,
Androgynously made. No sin.
I pray to God I decide, Rickey.
Yes. I’ll go the whole way.
Let the scalpel in.
A Note from the Editor
Read more from the July/August issue of Poetry.
Source: Poetry (July 2023)
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