Sabbath

I'm six or seven and dreaming that I'm a boy.

I emerged out of the water and went into the garden

with a small silver hand between my thighs.

Later, in the shower, I see a boy naked.

He is contagious, and I can feel mine.

I was told not to stare then, but my eyes have never been larger,

in and out of my body, my stare kept growing.

I guess that's what's called flesh memory.

Oh, how I wanted to tell him that we had switched places!

In my dream I'd had him on me,

but I didn't that day when I told her the dog was a wolf and the rock was a cliff,

and you're a horse!

I said, if the dog was a wolf and I a boy she could be a horse, sure thing, she had no excuse.

And we were running then, horse and wolf and girl,

braces on her teeth like a bridle, a bride, a bridle.

I felt tight against supple, cool against hot, wires and skin.

I've always been like this.

Somedays I feel like my body is straightened,

held up by thin braces,

metal spires embrace my spine, my face, my cunt.

I can feel myself from above,

but I can't see who's holding them.

It would be easy to think about submission,

but I don't think it's about submission,

it's about holding and being held.

We ran willingly, horse-like, girl-like, boy-like.

Her voice neighing in the back of her throat,

and when I came closer we collided and kissed in the passing, on the mouth, like horses do.

I said, her thin lips over enamel and steel.

I felt the outline of her braces against my own,

little silver arms reaching for each other