a poem based on Eli Clare's excerpt by Johnnie Sanchez (creative piece for final)

the flannel that protected

the curls that never got cut off

was I feminine with the hammer

swinging by my side, or,

getting nailed—to the ground—

by my father?

Betsy mistaking me for a boy

made me secretly smile

how my father shaped me

I do not know

are they right?

I learned what it meant

to be a person,

a child,

not girl, not boy

my hands always shaking

for all those lies,

from all those lies

grateful for the quiet

it provided me

with all those stones in my heart

grateful for Susan and Suzanne

who reminded me of myself

before I even knew

sex was never about desire,

or love,

just rape

when I got older I would never

tell her that I wanted her

but then the bone mended

I knew I never wanted

husbands or skirts

I remember the painful uncomfortableness

in that simple white dress,

backed against the Oregon May,

knew I would never wear one myself

I remember adoring that long brown haired

girl at the bar, just nice cause of tips

and now?

I spend my days

sitting with people like me,

or not like me,

tell stories

laugh cry

all into the night,

our bodies stolen

and then, miraculously,

reclaimed