I don’t really know. North and south my body a Pavlov oozing
engine. Woof! It leaks. Making cellmates with abnormal

psychology. I go where I am told. Pour of manure, animals
roped and vertigo smooch. I want a second childhood, where I am not afraid

to be breastless and pastoral. Put in the old rural corner. I was
bad. I could have been a boy, too. “Gender Identity Disorder,” they call it,

draw anatomical maps. Zap me good. “Emotional Hermaphrodilia.” I play
with both my parts. My limp sigh of Y, smooth underbelly. What boy

can say he was once a girl? What boy would want to? It’s possible
I’m not human at all. Doctors smear me and I dayglo

their arms. “Transanimal Affliction,” they diagnose me, MRI
insecticide blips, mammogrammed fat orchids. They say I am just

“Going through things.” Time will tell. They say the more I do
“it” the more I will understand. I turn inside out with the leaves, they look

inside me. Choo choo’d skin going hip, curved earth, tits. They say
I am not a boy at all, they say. I am all the right things.