In Pieces

Individually the parts
looked OK. His grandmother
always said he got her legs
and they looked good
in stockings—he preferred
the old kind with the seams
running up the back:
There was an art
to keeping them straight.

And he could rock a pair
of heels better than his sister!
His arms had not gone to flab.
They were firm and attractive.
But then he wasn’t taking
the hormones anymore.

Which meant the hair
on arms and legs and hands
had come back full force.
He wanted to be Aphrodite
but he was Ariadne
chained to the rock
of a past mistake.

In Pieces

Was it his fault? Why had he
stopped here midway
to the she he would
become? He knew everyone
was different—not just
from each other but
in themselves. He had stopped
here, at least for now:
With a woman’s stocking
on a shaved leg, a man’s hairy
hand, and a heart that would
somehow learn to love
all the different pieces.