St. Eugenia Becomes the Monk Eugene
In a dream I chase a boy from a room
When I catch him When I catch him at edge of the stair, I hold him
I say boy look at me and he does.
Then our nerves twine bundled blue
our looking threads drown
in deep water.
I never want to stop being afraid of this tremble
This trying to know who I am in the eyes of another.
And oh I tell you I am amazed at the way
he keeps being a boy, and then he keeps being a girl.
And though I am seeing a change, I cannot see
a change, I can only see a boy, and then a girl and then,
and then, again, and then
And I think: this is something, isn’t it something,
I look and look and his no her
her eyes no mine, my eyes—
I wear a monk’s robe.
I stir the sweet grass to boiling.
I am the maker of droughts, thereafter known as Eugene,
in my house of wattle daubed with mud.
He who delivers life to infirm men. Who knows yet
that he a woman was.
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