lucky number 7 (or indications that I’d be a…

when i was 7, i hoped rocks would whisper

the secret to being hard. fascinated by Keisha’s skin

so soft, i seduced her into humping even though she

was five years my senior and my babysitter—click of the light

covers snatched away like a magic trick reveal

i could hear Keisha wail one floor up

through the radiator pipes—i was the victim.

at 7, i decided i should’ve been born

a boy, a he, a him. blamed my mama for her mistake.

prayed for a penis and practiced peeing standing up

until it came: aim, angle of lean, and straddle were crucial.

toilet seat up, knees clamping the cool rim i let go

of the golden flow feeling the warm wet trickle down my legs

darkening my dungarees a new shade of blue.

at 7, i was never afraid of putting things in my mouth:

i chewed my fingernails till they bled, chewed pencils

till the yellow paint flaked me a crusty mustache,

chewed pen caps into odd sculptures, chewed pens until

the inky cylinders leaked a Rorschach on my face

kids pointing as i ran to the bathroom

oooh a butterfly! no, a thundercloud …

i wore my iron-on Bruce Lee sweatshirt till his face cracked

and faded invisible. still, i felt invincible when i wore it

kicking lunch tables with my shins. karate-chopping pencils

in two. forever trying to impress the skirts with my awkward

brand of goof. punching my arm to make lumps

rise out of the bony sinew. at 7, i knew

how to make a girl cry.

Source: how to get over (Red Hen Press, 2017)