I spread my gender without might or suffering, 
unfold my pleated sex. Ghostly, I extend the spores

of my skeleton, and haunt you with my me. Still, 
the past taps me like a lamprey’s oral disc, and let me 

tell you, that shit hurts. Takes me days to get back.
Back to my sloped magnet-eyes and soft-serve hips, 

to the carousel of laughter, moonlight on a spoon.
There’s nothing more sensual than your tenderness. 

With my body, I am, and I am splendour. With my
sleek bodega, and ripe testicles—growing a pair.

Two, taken together, at the brink, like Starsky 
& Hutch—or Thelma & Louise. They’re having a ball

weeping on the car-hood. I am, and I am splendour.
Uncoupling the lethal double-joint that strikes me.

Becoming three and four and five, now, a numberless
becoming. Not man or snake or wife. Neither cause

nor mark of violence. Having said my peace, I can be 
anything, pluperfect. Stars elapse over my throat.

Licking me with spit & vinegar, hot foam down 
the backs of my knees. I’m shifting from one thing 

to my loveliest others. In a world better than
this one. Looking to my fellow for fellow-feeling,

I note there the slight almond of its quiver. And every
arrow finds me, shakes me with pleasure, for I am

home now.

© Nikki Sheppy