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two little fish swim together. next to each other. pillars of weeds in the clear water. a tiny fish chases another lazily and then changes their mind. deep deep green there are worlds beneath the ripples. their reflection shimmers on the undersides of overhanging trees. moss fern last years brown and this years beech. cradle that holds me suspended on the cusp of new fronds. fresh green stalks growing from the trees wounds. roots merging into rock and moving down around the bank. i need to take a shit. a fly takes a sudden liking to my foot.
already as expected many people have asked me where i’m from. the accent confuses them. confusion is not ok it seems. i’ve started just saying ‘i’m confused’ with a wink. when i ask people what they mean by ‘from’ they mostly look at me blankly. then they go for ‘ok well where were you born?’ with a look of slight or deeper irritation.
the fish have black fins on their side back and tail and red ones on their belly. it will rain again. their scales are brown speckled and some of the larger ones flash silver as they turn, searching for food among the weeds. a small flower, pink and wonderfully strange engulfs a single blade of grass on the rock, holding tight with curved jaws. memories drift in close circles. when the fish turn sideways they look flat, two-dimensional.
DOES YOUR COUNTRY LOVE YOU
DOES YOUR CUNT LOVE YOU ? DOES YOUR CUNT TREE LOVE YOU
two tiny fish chase each other in circles. always maintaining the same distance.
a stranger told me i look like james dean. - hastening to add ‘a female version of james dean, much more feminine’.
I find i am not interested in countries.
i am interested in cunts.
and trees.
a homecoming:
meeting another lovely queer and sharing a joke together, bobbing along for a moment on the crest of a binary sea.
the vibration between the dissonance of two notes, loving each other in their difference, no compromises.
the horizon. any horizon.
a sudden shared appreciation of cabbage.
light shining through leaves. all leaves. all light.
SAGE. Sage. always.
wearing my cock. not wearing my cock.
when someone looks me in the eye and sees. mirrors my own light.
a home in language? floating free of geography? being exiled by language. loss of language. inadequacy of language: each time someone genders me repeatedly ‘female’ i realize i am far from home, that i inhabit a world they can’t see, have no notion of. to be seen as i am? Rare. hard not to build walls around my heart when most every sentence, each trip to a public bathroom or clothes store or women’s circle reminds me i’m not welcome. that there is no place for me because i am neither nor. and both. i don’t exist. i build my own wings. transformation.
TRANS FORMATION
love. belonging.
BE LONGING
freedom. to be. freedom to be.
heritage. owing a lot to those who have been and are – brave enough to say
I AM
they are my foundation. the rock that holds me up. the source from which my springs rise up. the whisper of memory. the body of hope.
- Originally written for Bucky and Sensible Quarterly under the theme 'Does Your Country Love You'