When my family burnt it all, we

 

even burnt the dolls. I write

 

about this all the time, but have you

 

ever seen anything like it? A pit

 

of ashes and dozens of porcelain 

 

hands, sprouting up like girlish 

 

weeds. So far in this life, I have 

 

heard a number of unacceptable 

 

apologies and they have all begun 

 

with “I’m sorry” and ended with 

 

OxyContin. It’s a shame 

 

the Pennsylvanian landscape 

 

is just waterfalls, coal, and 

 

pharmaceutical drugs. I wish

 

there were more libraries and less

 

violence, but I have always been so

 

painfully hopeful. On Facebook 

 

yesterday, my sister’s boyfriend 

 

messages “she’s abandoned me

 

at the airport, I don’t know what

 

to do” and I resist the urge 

 

to tell him: that’s what she does 

 

to all of us. Instead I write back,

 

“Oh no!” There are so many ways 

 

to be angry at just one thing.

 

I haven’t seen my sister in 9 years 

 

and sometimes I have a temper

 

with my hand-fruit, bite it, a little 

 

too hard, because chewing 

 

is such a frustrated act

 

to being with. At 7 years old 

 

my father said he was going

 

to push me all the way around

 

on the swing-set; I leapt off

 

at the peak, airborne and so

 

sure of his strength. Centripetal

 

or centrifugal, neither

 

matter if your face meets

 

the ground, alive with blood and 

 

mulch. At 11 my father told me 

 

the legend of Pope Joan, and I loved

 

how she hid her her-ness in plain 

 

sight. So invisibly woman. When she

 

gave birth, and was put to death,

 

I imagined she must have been raped.

 

She must have. I believe strongly

 

that had I known one trans person

 

as a child, I’d have half as many scars

 

as an adult. I could have come

 

around to this body so much sooner

 

and without as many cigarette burns,

 

my whole body a cratered and earth

 

bound moon. Often, when I am drunk

 

and alone, white men ask me

 

what I have against white men

 

if I want to look like one, and then

 

they follow me all the way home.

 

It seems every man in America 

 

has been taught to stalk real quiet

 

in a forest of dry leaves. Myself included.

 

I am not a man, nor do I desire to be,

 

but I suppose I have always been 

 

a hunter, armed and unwilling

 

to consider my own shortcomings.

 

After I woke from my double

 

mastectomy, I thought about the day

 

my father killed two doe with one bullet 

 

and we butchered them both, right

 

there and then. There is two 

 

of everything worth having two of. 

 

Now I am so visibly trans, I am being 

 

photographed in white light, my scars

 

lit like dogwood crowns. It’s hard 

 

to know what to make of this, when 

 

all I have ever known is blood

 

red and a wilderness. Recently

 

a new cloud was introduced 

 

to the atlas, known for its apocalypse 

 

lip color, its mouth opening dark-deep—

 

like a sinkhole, or your trans lover’s eager

 

and previously abused mouth. Nobody

 

wants to be lonely, least of all me. 

 

Maybe I am interested in clouds 

 

because I am one, stratus sliced post

 

surgery, or maybe it’s because I’m an air

 

sign and have been missing my family 

 

for years, despite all their lava, 

 

all their hot angry fuel. My mother 

 

is a better whistler than me, but 

 

I think we both understand air, 

 

and our mouths, and the best 

 

ways to call for help. Listen, 

 

there is a razor in the apple 

 

and the apple is the earth. Listen,

 

my nightmares are dreams in which

 

everyone walks the same direction—

 

that rhythmic lockstep. Both of my

 

grandmothers considered abortion.

 

And can you imagine?

 

Being so close to nothing.