the sun creases downwards in the corner of my eye

So now you call me by my name
Not honey like the caramel colours of burnt butter leaves
Falling in the garden around soft bodied worms lit up with the earth’s                                                                                                           crumbs
Below the dirty dirt, minor birds pecking at the formality of it all
Cold hues grey and loveless

My horns fuse into the shape of bows, pulling back
Stupid brain with your diminutive thoughts on how things shoulda, coulda,                                                                                                   woulda been
Who we seem – and very few have the courage of oxen
On the inside there are objects fluctuating crossways in curvatures over                                                                                                              mirrors
Last night there was a sixteen year old transgender boy telling his story –
                                                                                    I saw it on the box

The kingfisher calls
You call my name,
What is it?

the sun creases downwards in the corner of my eye

I can’t hear through your formerly affectionate handlings, velour voice                                                                             hooking me in to our wide
River of memory, salmon swimming upstream and flying fish pretending
                                                                                       they even care
The outline of your body a shadow puppet cursed and disinterested

Testosterone cream to burn, his outer casket dissolved and shape shifted for                                                                                                       all to see

I am the outside people, nameless,
Write me a letter some time
I won’t read it
In the sun’s skirt of pleats I am folding