Boyhood
When we were born we were so small that our aunts said we
were the size of a chicken she would put back at the store. We
were not big enough to feed our families. Only 5 pounds.
Now that we are grown enough to burn the pink hat they gave
us we look around at boys we did not grow up with and see
that they are so big and yet so small. They are tall and lean and
relaxed in the sun like wheat growing up to catch the light.
We never got flat chested boyhood, not past 5th grade. That’s
when our knobby knees turned to flesh and blood, and we were
like peaches when we wanted to be switchblades.
We used to have dreams before we knew what they meant where
we had short hair instead of 2 long braids and our legs were thin.
We have chewed up and spit out gender like cherry tobacco,
mulled it around in our mouths long enough to know its bitter
taste. When we are feeling brave we ask ourselves “what if I went
on testosterone so I could be skinny?” and it hurts like staring
into the sun, so we know we must ask it more often and louder.
What if we went on testosterone so we could be skinny? So our
wrists could be slim and strong like that of a child we never got
to be? Why did it feel so good when the fat slid off our hip bones
and we needed to chisel another hole in our belts? Why are the
small hairs on our chests not enough or even wanted?
We never asked to be men but my god we begged to be boys.
In the basement of our all-girls middle school, peeling away
grapefruit flesh from skin. They told us it was like eating
backwards. Both times it touched our mouths all we tasted
was acid.
In the second bathroom stall we empty ourselves so that we
may feel full. We want to stand like a boy who is weightless. We
want to take the heaviness of the earth from our chests. We
want to imagine that we have always been like this.
were the size of a chicken she would put back at the store. We
were not big enough to feed our families. Only 5 pounds.
Now that we are grown enough to burn the pink hat they gave
us we look around at boys we did not grow up with and see
that they are so big and yet so small. They are tall and lean and
relaxed in the sun like wheat growing up to catch the light.
We never got flat chested boyhood, not past 5th grade. That’s
when our knobby knees turned to flesh and blood, and we were
like peaches when we wanted to be switchblades.
We used to have dreams before we knew what they meant where
we had short hair instead of 2 long braids and our legs were thin.
We have chewed up and spit out gender like cherry tobacco,
mulled it around in our mouths long enough to know its bitter
taste. When we are feeling brave we ask ourselves “what if I went
on testosterone so I could be skinny?” and it hurts like staring
into the sun, so we know we must ask it more often and louder.
What if we went on testosterone so we could be skinny? So our
wrists could be slim and strong like that of a child we never got
to be? Why did it feel so good when the fat slid off our hip bones
and we needed to chisel another hole in our belts? Why are the
small hairs on our chests not enough or even wanted?
We never asked to be men but my god we begged to be boys.
In the basement of our all-girls middle school, peeling away
grapefruit flesh from skin. They told us it was like eating
backwards. Both times it touched our mouths all we tasted
was acid.
In the second bathroom stall we empty ourselves so that we
may feel full. We want to stand like a boy who is weightless. We
want to take the heaviness of the earth from our chests. We
want to imagine that we have always been like this.