My body is a golden lion deemed beautiful; he is bricks of gold, forest sunsets, whispers of caramel across the horizon. My body is a blue jay, she is delicate summer days for one more week, they are a melancholy cloud juggling responsibilities of rain with promises of open sky.
Cisgender bureaucracy—ever-physicalizing—demands: Which genitals are you? Which toilet are you? You may fly in exactly one half of the sky.
I wish my sky was infinite possibility; freedom, selfhood, genderless.
Yet my reality is captivity. Obfuscation. Despair.
Cisgender skies dribble mocking laughter, slimy as a dog’s saliva on a new pillow, alight
with the vivacity of decay.
Firm as molton lampshades, bars tear daylight from my eyes; I am fragments molded into “acceptable” normality; they morph to every desperate plea of selfhood. What irony gender—body—cannot so easily adapt!
My evolving spherical planet has no air.
The only gravity I know is the banality of my own assimilation.
Does this gendered body—mine—constitute me?
To my past, present, and suffocated-no-more LGBTQIA+ future, I salute you.
My sky is 49 entrance wounds in a gay nightclub on Latin night. My lion is my nonbinary genderqueer humanity,
I am nothing. I am all.
This is a small representation of the high-quality writings you’ll find in every issue of TIFERET.
We receive no outside funding and rely on subscription sales, workshop fees, and donations to publish. If you enjoy our journal’s verbal and visual offerings, we hope you’ll consider supporting us in one of these ways.Subscribe Today to Read More!