Testament to the Agency of Man

Do I change?

Do I go the—as you say—whole way?

The breast, a predicament of treatment:

Free Will,

It seems, be more than just the crow’s zigzag

In the wind,

But a thing like breasts, it hangs

There, even in the mind,

Behind the muscle’s freeze,

Homogenously patient for its sister—the breasts,

I mean; the Will, I was saying; but it seems I am

The crow, the same flying

Inside so many green and ruder choices.

Trans, a choice

Written on my body. And I’m allowed.

Trans, a fecund decision,

Androgynously made. No sin.

I pray to God I decide, Rickey.

Yes. I’ll go the whole way.

Let the scalpel in.