A Name Replaced Like a Name
There is change and the I passes through it.
I pass through it. Vomit in the rain. Pockets
of the rain open. The rain keeps referring to me.
I ask the rain to refer to me.
The rain understands. They say to me:
I am the rain, a raindrop is like a finger.
I understand the rain. The rain tells me
what it’s like to drip off my attire.
I tell the rain we are not so different after all
the fighting that happened indoors. It was
the panties, wasn’t it? The family finds that
I have contradicted myself. The family
finds my closet, the one I
I’ve kept in parenthesis. I am told that
people don’t need to see that stuff. I’m called
transvestite, called crossdresser, called out, pulled
out of the closet where I keep my clothes. I am not
familiar with the “lyric I,” the lyric I walks up to me,
shakes my hand, hugs me, helps me pull the skirt on,
helps with my makeup, tells me what it’s like
to drip off my attire.
Mathilda Cullen is having a normal one