ON LOU SULLIVAN’S ADVICE

I’m told to use a small comb to brush through the subtleties—
take a razor to the peach fuzz, because men are not soft like that,
and never look up upon their faces because men do not look close.
Men, I hear, are somewhat rougher, and so if the thought
doesn’t make me feel sick, I should try to want like a man does,
without pause or question.

But I’ve been wanting for a long time, and not like that–
been wanting in a way that draws my sweetheart closer
with all the love I show & in a way that convinces me
to get a mohawk when I cut my hair. It brings me
to punk shows with my lover, and back home to bed.

When I read Lou Sullivan’s advice, it seems I’ve been fed
a blackout poem for all these years– like a Constantine’s Bible
of these respected texts, but God knows I respect you, Lou, and yet
it still does not feel right.

There is no blending bright lime eyeshadow to assure believability,
and there is no way to make me the man others might want.
Fat crawls around my waist like a caterpillar– rests on my wide hips–
and it is mine, like my full, warm lips and cheeks are,
like my big eyes & long lashes are, like my butch self is.

I love you for all that you were and are, and yet I am trans,
and I cannot blend in.