John Wayne Carrying A Baby
pretty boy, i can’t be
your swollen cow you won’t touch
my belly but to plug
the gunshot i’m a different
kind of man—a woman, of rib
giant plastic cactus my pregnant
stomach the yip
of my dog hurt paw clean bed
my partner’s partner plays
the harmonica poorly, slowly
in my negligee, the baby kicks
violence in the xbox my mom while pregnant
felt like John Wayne
i felt like a tired fool in her womb—
violent like an egg
bandana dirty
the first time i wore a skirt
i was told give us a spin he pushed
a spoon into my mouth,
sent me to the bus
to be spanked in accessible seating
while off-duty historical
reenactors snapped photos
it was humiliating i loved it
i’m stuck
on true imagination, attack horses,
what it feels like to give
your body a body
these days i’m crying
at tender graffiti, wondering
about the fears of my grandfather’s
childhood best friend
waking at night he checks
under the bed swearing he felt a kick
i feel like a globe with no land
like a mother in danger
my baby will look
nothing like me
I Am Not A Woman Today
Today I am an ailing femboy with an orange
cough waiting for God to spit
rain into my car wash
Hawks at dawn abscond
toward a bluer freedom A lonely flagpole slaps
its own thigh My thrifted pants are too tight & I’m angry
at the weather All sun, no cream
The Virgin Mary statue in the Catholic suburb of the cemetery
toppled in the storm Lifting with our knees
Pam and I can’t budge it We place the snapped head
tenderly near the neck
I pray like I’m hiding a frog from the class
When I forget to say thank you the gas station attendant puts
out a cigarette on her arm The burn forms an image of Christ
if Christ looked like nothing
Let’s say what we feel like I’ll go first: I feel like a puppet
with a wet bulge like I’m helplessly watching
a golf cart die in a sinkhole I can’t love right
I’ve got all this leg hair and small tits
A lousy milk cow A buffet of coleslaw
I dreamt I found my lost rings
You were there forgiving
me like a mirror rehearsal
I sobbed in your arms
and said I just want to be happy
but those are your words—You gave the dog her pill
and rubbed my neck until it went down
Of course I worry I won’t wake up I always do
Isa Pickett (she/they) is a trans writer, musician, and educator. Her work has appeared in Five South, Philadelphia Stories, and is forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch. Their work has been nominated for Best of the Net and made the long list for Frontier Poetry’s Award for New Poets. She lives in Philadelphia. Follow them on Instagram @isapickett_ or Twitter @pickett_isa.
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