Wednesday, June 25, 2008


Slow beats the heart of the salamander
Who rests guarding her eggs in the cool moss.
Silently she breathes in my time through gloss
Of skin gold and brown. Disturbed she gathers
Tightly against them; only they matter
Turning their gray yolks, spinning time to floss.
Unwraps the program of their lives embossed
Even in me through my life meander,
Back to the cold throated streams where she lives,
Her old slow eyes imprinted in my eyes
And drawing me into you with a stare,
For that brief moment; then my hair I give
One flick and with a couple pulls and sighs
My mother's eyes click red lips down the stair.

Two very disparate images I know, but salamanders of course typically go through a metamorphosis. Once going out, I was just checking my appearance and how much I can resemble my mother at this age struck me. And no, I don't think wanting to be like one's mother (or father) is really part of being transgender, so forget that.
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