our weekly milkshake.
He eyes
my midnight blue
cotton dress
and lace tights
like he knows
something is up.
I almost always
wear baggy jeans and
an earth-toned zip-up.
He braces to
ask a million questions.
But I switch the subject
to chemistry,
the one class he
now loves.
Mr. Ralph taught them to make
molten iron and fires that
can’t be put out with water.
Questioning dodged.
After our milkshake,
I walk down to
Sam’s and my spot.
But Samless,
to meet
Ezra.
79
Guilt
wells up inside
like a spring.
But Sam
wouldn’t understand.
And I get why
Ezra doesn’t want
to go somewhere
like a movie theater,
where he might
run into any
of the guys
from school.
80
The Quarry, Waxing Gibbous, Egg Moon He’s there waiting
with
a potted
philodendron.
A gift.
But
he looks
nervous.
Like he needs
to tell
a secret and
he doesn’t
know
if he can.
“What’s on
your mind?”
I ask.
“I know
what people
are saying
about me,
but
I’m not
gay. And
I’m not
bisexual.
I’m
gender fluid.”
81
He talks fast
as he
explains to me
what it means to be
both a man
and a woman.
At one point
he seems to be
at a loss for words.
Until
he looks up to see
the moon.
He continues,
“It’s kind of like
the moon
is the feminine me
and the sun
is the masculine me
everyone expects
me to be.
The moon is always there,
but, during the day,
the sun mostly
overpowers her.
Sometimes,
if you look
closely though,
you can see her.
Faintly.
But it is only when
she is left alone
and the sun sleeps
82
that she can give off
her full light.
Other times,
one
eclipses
the other
and
I can’t find
a piece of
myself.
And
everything
goes
dark.
Those times
are hard.”
I can tell
he’s
troubled by
my quietness.
He probably thinks
I’m
freaked out
by his truth.
But
it’s entirely
the opposite.
A dam opens up
inside my chest.
All the things that have been
caught in the backwash
83
between my head
and my throat
flood my mind.
Once
you are told
how water works,
you understand
things you have
experienced
on a river.
Once
I was told
how gender works,
as Ezra went on
in detail about
social constructs and
being outside
the binary,
I understood
things I had
experienced
in life.
I understood
the slumber parties
I never wanted to attend.
I understood
my confused sadness
at my parents’
disapproval when
I cut my own hair with
a bowl and scissors.
84
Age eight. And
ran off to the creek with
the boys next door.
I understood
my outer pride
every time
someone praised me
a man’s job.
But also
my inner need
sometimes
to pretend
I am
just
another
boy
on
the
river.
The river.
Nature
is full of
species that
have no gender.
Or
change gender.
Or
break the norm of
what gender
should mean.
Fluid.
85
Like
a river.
Like
water.
I smile
and
a single tear
wanders
down my
cheek.
I nod.
“I’m
not sure.
But
I think,
maybe,
me
too.”
His face is
a mix of
relief,
surprise,
and
excitement.
“Can we
try something?”
he asks.
86
An Evolution
It’s 11:00 on
a Friday night.
Teenagers,
classmates,
hang out in front of
the box office.
On street corners.
Outside the coffee shop.
Ezra and I
stroll
hand in hand
down
Main Street.
I in his
black jeans
and button-up shirt.
He in my
midnight blue
cotton dress
and lace tights.
Heads start
to turn.
And whispers turn
to jeers.
I grasp his hand
tighter in mine.
“You look beautiful,”
I say.
87
He looks at me.
For the first time
all night,
his eyes are
focused.
Calm.
Steady.
“It’s true.
I’m earth and
you’re water.
I need
you
in order
to grow.”
Then he does
something
that makes
every drop
inside me
surge up like
a towering wave.
He holds my face
in his palms,
as if he were cuppin
g
a very big, fragile seed.
Or a precious drink
of water. And
he kisses me
right on the street.
In the midnight blue light.
In a midnight blue dress.
88
And I’m
swimming
through the sky.
Swirling and
stroking
endlessly
through the
depth.
And
the only thing
that
brings me
back down
is
the mix
of shock
and anger on
a face in
the crowd.
Lit by
a single
flame
from
a purple
lighter.
89
A Night of Mixed Dreams
That night I have
two dreams.
An earth dream and
a water dream.
The first.
My room is
filled from
wall to wall with
potted
philodendrons.
They whisper green
to me.
Pulsing.
The green feeds
my imagination’s
predawn hunger.
Growing as wild and
huge as the plants
pouring out of
their containers.
The walls drip
moss and nectar.
Sapping and
releasing spores.
Bristling and
breathing.
Ezra is lying
90
on the bed
next to me.
A mattress
somehow
made of soil.
A garden bed.
A canopy of vines
winds down
his shoulders and
around my waist.
The room
is bright with
magenta and
tangerine.
Forest green and
marigold.
And the plants
take in the colors
like a sort of
photosynthesis.
Ezra says
the philodendrons
don’t need much.
He says
he doesn’t
need much
either.
But I am
still learning
the things I have
for giving.
91
He is
bent
around me.
Arms wrapped
around
my middle.
Feet laced
together
into
threaded roots.
Digging
deep
into the
sheets.
The green
behind
our
closed eyes
and in
our stomachs
reassures
us.
It’s
enough
to
get
us
through
tomorrow.
92
A Nightmare
A harbor shimmers
in the speckled
moonlight.
Blue-green and
serene.
There is a thick,
inky blackness.
It dribbles at first,
from somewhere
unknown. But
begins to spew
faster and faster.
Until it’s gushing
unstoppably.
Scummy.
Tar-like.
Deathly.
An oil spill.
Then
the whole scene
alights in
a screaming blaze.
Orange and deep red.
The surface
of the water
is burning.
93
Poise
Red: a single
ball-shaped earring
dangling from
one lobe.
Orange: a pair of
Keds he kicks around in
when his leather boots are
too much.
Yellow: a wool poncho.
Draped like confidence
over strong but
delicate shoulders.
Green: eyes that seem
as hungry
and lively
as the ferns he grows.
Blue: nail polish
he tried before
calling it—
with a wink—
too glitzy
for his humble style.
Purple: a graceful
defiant harmony of
pink and blue,
girl and boy.
94
This is
the portrait of
Ezra.
As he struts down
a side street
of a
small town
no one in
Paris or
Milan
will ever
hear of.
And not
caring
all the
same.
He wears a chip
on his tooth
from singing in
a punk band.
Just as proudly as
he wears a silk dress
with cutouts.
And that,
in this town,
might be
the most
dangerous
and
exciting
thing
of
all.
95
Social Deforestation
Neither Victoria, nor
any of her friends,
sit with us at lunch today.
In fact, the whole school
is acting weird.
Like we crossed
some unsaid
line in the sand.
Giving us blank stares
and cold shoulders.
The only thing warm at all—
too hot, in fact—
is Sam’s burning stare
when we try
to slide in with him.
I should have told Sam
that we’re together.
96
That I blew him off
for Ezra.
I can tell Ezra thinks it’s
because of his outfit today.
That his boldness has
outworn its welcome.
Wearing a dress to school.
To school, of all places.
Why would he expect people
to act any differently?
I doubt
it ever
crossed his mind.
For Sam,
perhaps
the kiss
was
more
bold
than
the
fashion.
97
Bo, Incident #3
Ezra is leaving
the school grounds
at the end of the day
when Bo
reaches him
before I do.
Furious,
he shoves
Ezra by
the shoulders.
“I mean, it was
gross when you
were just gay,”
he sneers
through
clenched teeth.
His fists are
balled up.
Tight.
At both sides of
his studded belt.
“When you were
the gay friend.
But what kind of
sick game
are you playing?”
98
“You think you
can love
a woman
dressed
like that?
You think you
can compete
with us?
That you’re
one of us?
A man
making a pass
at our girls,
playacting
like that?
Who do you
think you are?”
I want to run.
To bowl his
spiky-haired,
muscle-shirted,
tough and manly,
bully body
to the ground.
But
I’m frozen
20 feet away.
Ezra’s gaze
tells me to hold off.
He can handle it.
“Ah, Batesian mimicry,”
Ezra says calmly.
Coolly.
99
“Do you know
what it is?”
“What?”
Bo spits.
Eyes squint.
“I said
Batesian mimicry,
you idiot.”
Bo’s face looks crazed with
disbelief and rage
at the insult.
But whether it is
curiosity or
cowardliness,
second-guessing
or just toying with prey,
something keeps
his fists at bay.
Ezra gives Bo
a slow up and down
with his eyes.
“It’s when a harmless species
changes itself to look
like a harmful species.
They appear to be
more of a threat than
they actually are.”
“Harmless?
I’ll show you,
freak,” Bo says.
100
“You’re
gonna wish
I was harmless.”
Bo raises his fist
to strike when
my instinct
kicks in.
I leap
at him.
I knock him
across the side
of the head with
a backpack
full of
books.
He stumbles
backward
to the ground.
Looks up
at me
with
hate
and
surprise.
His friend Derek
rushes over
to help him up.
Ready
to jump into
the fight.
101
But
Bo
stops
him.
“We’re
done here,”
he says,
as he shoots us
a look
that
could
kill.
And
walks
away.
102
A Memory I Wish Was a Blur
That moment.
It was brief
but
long enough
to send me
spiraling into
a flashback:
It’s September of
my freshman year and
my first of
the high school parties
on the other side
of the quarry.