Toni Dawe

This isn’t a question of ‘suppose’ 

This is a declaration of what is happening 

Right under our noses 

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This is sacred fire manipulated by category four hurricane-force winds 

At home hearth turned binary prison for those born into contrived sin 

Trapped in the wrong body, the professionals say 

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Societally scathed by misleading displays 

Genetic betrayal in God’s image and shape 

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So many questions from those hungry for more, grieving something kept secret

Maintained an unknown reason to feel monstrously out of place in any space

No matter how many signs deem it a program cultivated safe place 

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        1. Is this body not mine to play? 

        2. In which role am I meant to stay? 

        3. Am I an actor or a person held behind the Coast Guard’s bay? 

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Is this line of questioning uncomfortable for you? 

Imagine how it feels for me, stuck underneath hot glue 

Coated top to bottom in ceramic glazed riddle and ruze 

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Queries packaged into unfiltered, innocent tears of the forced few quiet queer

Crying tunes of times soaked in past pride 

Drips clinking into a splatter-painted porcelain Kettle 

Passion craft boiled until the steam squeal is so loud that it shatters itself 

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The news headlines light up bright on street-side racks 

Black and white words written on display 

They say, “We tried to help. The cute little Kettle just could not find its way back to its place on the rickety schoolroom shelf.” 

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I am, or was, the Kettle’s best friend 

Sorry, I am still trying to get that one right 

I don’t think it will ever sink in that they died 

I hope they finally found comfort on that last night 

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I cry every time I see my little teacup bodily form in the mirror 

My best friend, Kettle, was the only one who understood this fear 

The world is much scarier now that they’re gone 

                         I hope they’re living their dreams out now 

I ask my parents for guidance 

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They say, “You can make the decision when you’re older. For now, I am your guardian.” Providing protection from what, trust in self-expression?

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You choose to keep children seated 

Crisscross apple sauce locked to oppressive red reading carpets 

Staring up at the Christian cross nailed above a wooden measuring stick 

Resting atop an art supply closet 

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“My name is” stickers clinging to lavender, white and light green striped chalkboard Blue and pink name under 

Name under 

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Name: 

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Pen stuck to a metal chain 

Pronouns crossed out in the sound of parliamentary bribes on crinkled parchment paper

The identifiers are determined to be too dangerous for little schoolyard ears 

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The government blokes have stated the best course for these young, confused folks

Remain trapped in cloaked meatsack for your early primary school years 

Let us pray that it doesn’t start to stink before your graduation day cheers 

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I wonder 

Have they considered what’s written below? 

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        1. Do I make you question how you identify with your postdated days of Identity Eyespy               under fire of cold-war time taboos and missiles aimed for the hopscotch blocks on your                 developmental pathway? 

        2. Response redacted. Expanse sealed behind closed doors. No riddle troll to ask for more.            3. What could you have seen with your naked little eye (if given the chance to explore)? 

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With age, this pain became a feeling of dark, knitted, programmed shame

Known so deep in my soul that I may as well 

Simply start referring to it using 

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My name: 

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My closest, caring friend 

Numinous ally 

And primary confidant 

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My dear, 

I have learned to trust its impish tongue much more than I trust my own 

Diseased 

Disordered 

Dysmorphic 

Thoughts

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When you’re introduced to illusion at such a young age 

You take the task of embodying its choreography as you craft your own polymer cage

You join hands and merge wills as you sew the vibrant fabric 

Thread by envenomed thread 

Ribbons mismatched and buttons click together, attached by the batch 

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The walls whip and wind 

Tall and teetering 

Painted with hypnotic design after hypnotic design 

A dizzy abyss behind your plush dolly eyes 

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Cold dismay tingles the nerves on my back and my calves 

I can’t quite see through these eyes just yet 

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       1. Am I… 

                        On a metal examination table? 

       2. Where did these displays and dissection devices come from? 

       3. Do I at least get to pick out a toy from the treasure box after? 

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Fragments of glaring funhouse mirrors hang unaligned 

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I feel so cruelly special 

Somehow divine while being treated like an infected swine 

Paralyzed. 

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Spinning reflection requests rapid response: 

Is that my body or theirs? 

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And whose latex hands are reaching for these autopsy tools? 

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Count down slowly from three… 

                                                          two 

                                                                    …