As a toddler, she ate leaves

from the basil, rearranged

seating at the pony party,

sold molded bugs to visitors

for a nickel. She turned words

in her mouth like candy: first goose,

then gender, then dysphoria.

She disliked dresses

and met a girl. Her friends,

so fluid, talked of “T”

and dead names.

It’s cool that you are gay,

I said, though she never

came out. I said, at least you

are not trans, washing her

friends’ binders. I said at least

you are not trans, at least

you are not trans.

I said: I feel like the last heterosexual on earth. 

The scars on her wrist

and thighs she did not hide.

We did what we do: search

“self-harm,” search “cutting”

search “therapy.” Each week

the brambles she runs through,

each week, the dog’s tooth.

And finally, the text:

I am a boy, she says,

in a text, he says, I am a boy.

I put away the dresses,

but not the jewelry. I put

the jewelry away. I say

he and him

and he and him

and he and him

through outrageous tears.

I say, my little girl, my little girl,

through outrageous tears. Now,

the breasts are gone

and so, the tears. Now, I say

my young man,

my son, my child.

I say be careful.

I say never

go anywhere

emptyhanded.

I say caterpillar,

I say butterfly,

I say star.