Letter to Cis Women
Reflections on holding it together on the occasion of waiting.
To you, wherever you are stewing in your own fear:
When the March snow started
pelting the outside of my house, wetly,
fatly,
I thought about what it would
feel like to run outside in my
pajama bottoms featuring robots
kissing, my blue and teal
winter jacket from Switzerland, and my duck
bill boots (Amish Paradise) and, with messy
hair the hue of bridge troll yellow, oh wait, I got it
wrong again! I’m sorry. You’re right, Trinity, it’s hair
the kind of blonde we associate with the Sun’s
golden rays, bay side, inside, outside, tongue
tied. Cuz, look, cuz (as in “cousin”)!
“It’s fucking snowing……again.”
So, anyways, I got off track…..again. Where
was I? Was I?
I was!
Indeed, I was thinking, over a cigarette, about running out into
the falling snow. And, as it wetly, fatly slapped the side
of my face, I was equal parts enamored and annoyed
at how much of it was falling all at once. Perhaps, I thought,
I could gather each piece of falling snow, myself,
and sequester it somewhere where it wouldn’t make
its way into boots, onto streets where salty Minnesota cars,
four wheel drive, alive, survive, not gonna thrive at five, fish
tail into innocent dog walkers, fresh
from the park.
But, of course, that would mean holding
it together.
Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it mean having to
keep up, Bella? To keep up with each
individual flake? “Impossible? Improbable?” I wonder aloud.
Translates Ruden, “Oh, Ierousalem, Ierousalem, who kills the prophets and stones those sent to her, how often I have wanted to gather your offspring, the way a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you all didn’t want that!”
I did, Lord. Oh, I did. (raises hand) Please
pick me. But, how could you trust it? We killed you
when you picked us. But, but, I
swear to Godde damn, I would never hurt you, baby Jesus.
So, pick me. Please?
Because I’m sitting in this fucking drafty old duplex and
wondering if it would be better
if I were dead, Megan (from St. Paul).
“So it goes,” writes Vonnegut.
Stop. Hold
up. Hold it
together, little boy (girl).
You just have to let it fall.
“It is what it is!” Right, Aaron?
Aaron is “The King of Town.” He
comes in for black, drip
coffee. Someone, somewhere
learned how to hold it together, hold it ALL
together for that one cup of fucking coffee, cuppa joe, HOE!, low
blow, sinking slow, not yes but no,
now go and grow big girl (woman)!
Let it fall, Johanna. Let it
fall. “Open the floodgates of heaven.”
Should I have known better, Megan (from Virginia)?
Should I have grieved womanhood
like a loss of light? Shall I grieve
friendship just as it begins?
Megan, you know the power of
words better than most.
And, maybe, perhaps, I’m writing this
down because it’s simpler than trying to
gather falling snowflakes on my own.
“Please don’t leave me!”
“Don’t hurt me!”
OUCH!
“Don’t tell me I’m acceptable and then disapprove!”
“Please!”
Lord, it hurts.
Jesus, we killed you, now come back and
tell me which ones you want to kill.
Because, I want to burn shit. And I can’t
wax poetic about a burning life like I can
a snow that falls.
I AM A WOMAN, GODDE FUCKING
DAMN YOU!
And, listen, you bitch (beautiful queen and cunt),
it’s not that I am struggling to hold it together!
Really? You think it is?
You say ONE fucking word, and everyone gathers around
and eats my heart without my consent.
Just eating the beating, bleeding hearts of trans girls around
the shitty ass water cooler at the office.
I have not a single hateful bone in my body
and I hate you. I hate you.
So, tell me this, s(c)is,
while my sweaty body rots in my chair,
why is it easier for a woman like you to say one word
and gather everyone to your blood mass than
it is for a woman like me to gather falling
snowflakes?
Because, it cannot be held together.
But, hate, momentarily, will draw together that which falls
and attempt to make some kind of cynical sense out of the whole
damnable thing.
Right?
Are you getting this?
Yeah, you, I’m FUCKING TALKING TO YOU!
This is your fault.
