(Angel)

New Year’s

When I was little

my mama let me believe

the clanging pots and pans

and fireworks were

in honor of me,

her Angel.

God’s little gift—

no matter what.

By the time Frankie came along

I knew better and so

we’d stand on the

deck at the country club

watching the bursts

and I’d say, “Okay, Frankie,

this next one is in honor of you,”

when the s k y

         “Angel, do it again!”

         Frankie would say.

Little brother thought

I could do anything.

A brain aneurysm

killed our beautiful mama

and after that it was

adiós, madre dulce,

goodbye, little brother.

Nothin’ I could do.

New Year’s sucked then.

But this year’s gonna be different

not like when I was working—

or even last year when I was

playing nurse to Gennifer.

        Her parents actually

        helped pay for her

        gender-affirming surgery.

        Making her outsides

        match her insides was

        the only way

        she was gonna feel right

—and that’s cool.

For me personally?

Even if I could afford it,

it’s just not that important

to how I see myself.

My junk doesn’t dictate who I am.