We Meet Down at Mono Cove

Waves crash

sea spray

and

I come out

into sunshine

that almost hurts

my eyes.

We walk.

I talk.

Angel listens.

I tell her about that night.

“I don’t know why I did it.”

And I don’t, not for sure.

“Maybe I thought

the sound of breaking glass

would drown out

that word?”

She nods.

                    “Uncool,” she says.

                    “But I think I understand.”

Pauses.

          “You got freaked

          figuring out

          you’re genderqueer.”

And even though

Angel says it quiet

the new word

bounces off the bluff

soft round sound

for such sharp edges.

          Queerbait.

Queer as a three-dollar bill.

          Smear the queer.

I consider

in silence.

Genderqueer.

The way

she says it

doesn’t feel

like a put-down.

I slip it on over my head

stretch around

feel it on my skin

                                not male

          not female.

A gull wheels by,

swoops down,

pecks in the

tangled

seaweed.

It reminds me of

the grabby women

at the bra-and-panty table

in Girl World.

“I have no idea where I fit in.”

            She smiles. “You think

            you’re the only one?”

“I’m just not … flamboyant.”

            “Shit, it’s not about

            how you dress—it’s

            not even about your body parts.

            Uh-uh—it’s about your soul.”

Maybe, maybe not.

My voice

is small in my ears.

“I’ll feel like Freakboy

no matter where I go.”

She stops walking,

looks me in the eye.

          “Everyone feels like a freak

          until they make up their mind

          they’re not.”

It’s full confession time.

“I read about people who’ve known

forever they belong in a different body,

“but I’m not even always sure I’m trans.

“Sometimes, being a guy is … not horrible.”

My shrug tightens,

my shoulders go round.

“Sometimes, it hurts more than anything.”

A                  tortuous

back    and    forth.

“What’s it even mean

that I’m never sure

either way?”

And really.

How can

you ever

get a grip

on THAT?

            “Lord knows,

            we don’t need

            more labels,” she says.

But then

she gives me

two words

that push

            the

                      pieces

of

            the

puzzle together.