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          


so


careful.


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


again.


And I think: this is something,                                 isn’t it something,


this,



isn’t it.



I look and look and his no her



her eyes no mine, my eyes—



are bigger,



after




II.



After waking




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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