I taped my breasts down; it was livable.
Once sworn to be a man, I bade farewell
to doll, babe, cupcake, cutie, butterfly,
and daughter, glittering necklaces, clitoris, labia,
rubies, nylons, silken dresses, lipstick,
everything that made me beautiful.
I'd be man-made. But my skin hurt, a lobster
red, a waste of tape. I stopped, soon baffled
that everyone, as if in a blindfold,
pretended my breasts disappeared, unlabeled
lumps under my suit jacket, more befitting
heavyset old men. I learned by heart
the lumbered movements of a man. I labored
over footsteps, feeling suddenly limbless,
hung upside down from the hard oak, limbered
my legs, my spine (for height), always barefoot,
my shoe-size rare. No one called my bluff.
No one. I puffed cigars, dispelled a labyrinth
of smoke, made women blush, but with no libido
for their soft shapes, I resented any lovebirds,
odd man out, and played the celibate bedfellow
of responsibility. Lifeless, breathful,
I spoke with a low voice, hoarse beefeater,
the son my parents never bottle-fed.
The house expenses (we're rich as butterfat)
I managed well, the business, those elaborate
dinner parties, hosting guests on behalf
of my proud family. But the blood feuds
did me in, made my home a battlefield.
Could I cry? Should I be bulletproof?
Be and kill a man, is this liberating?