When will my transition be done? 

I could write folios upon folios of what-ifs—I 

have. I penned a wicked ballad 

regretting everything I have been—except, possibly, being yours. That remains 

more innocent to me—me, imprecise 

with my metaphors, imprecise 

and writing you as a witness to my change. Let that image be done now. Let the remains 

of this poem tangle into a dying reef—aglitter with brief fishes. I beg you—don’t let me write another word of you. Your 

lovely nose. My paltry ballad. 

One evening: I, swollen with bitter ballads 

reading Stone Butch Blues aloud in your 

kitchen. Mincing garlic, imprecise 

with knives always blunt, you listened. I wish that I could be done with my changing body. You understand. But there I 

remain— 

writing obit and obit. I remain 

dreading public restrooms, maintain a litany 

of asking you—is it a single stall, is it a single stall, is it? I am often imprecise 

with my words but you know what I mean—danger isn’t done with me yet. My fear’s ribbon becoming your 

ribbon. Your 

eyes vigilant while sometimes the best I can do for you is remain rhyming with your name. One 

day, I hope you read a newspaper in which I am safe. Instead—ballads of my lush want on every page. Imprecise 

detailing of your toenails and future Appalachian seasons. I 

think you would like that. I 

have never been very skilled at narrative. You 

know—I prefer imprecise

anaphora, tinned fish on well-oiled toast, the quilted remains 

of our elders who died young. The truest ballads 

sung at night under gunshots we pretend are fireworks. And you and I in bed, undone. 

I remain 

yours—a ballad 

imprecise but nearly done.