there are fat wet vines creeping into my
house through the pipes and through

the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into
my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my
tile I am present and useless like a nose torn

from a face and set in a bowl when
I saw God I used the wrong pronouns

God bricked up my mouthhole
his fists were white as gold there were
roaches in my beard now I live like a widow

every day a heave of knitting patterns
and sex toys my family speaks of me

with such pride noonesh to roghane they say
his bread is in oil I thank them for that and
for their chromosomes most of which

have been lovely I am lovely too my body
is hard and choked with juice like a plastic

throat stuffed with real grapes my turn-ons
include Ovid and fake leather my turn-
offs have all been ushered into the base-

ment I’ll drink to them and to any victory
the vines are all growing toward the foot

of my bed I am waiting for them to come
under the covers I am the only person still in
this house there is no one here to look away