I would call it 'Rose Quartz',
after the $4 tube of lipstick
I bought from the dollar store.
Its waxy flavor reminds me

of all the times I cut school,
walked two miles home
across the mountain,
and broke into our house
through the bathroom window,

played dress-up
in my sisters' clothes
and mother's make-up
for a few hours
then laundered it all,
putting everything back
the way it was. I remember

feeling like I recaptured
my birthright; how life was
before kindergarten,
and told boys shouldn't wear
white dresses to school;
before I was pulled out
of the girl's line, the kids
nicknaming me 'Snow White'
because it rhymed with my name.

Then there's the pink
pebbles bought from Linda's
new age store.
She called them
'love stones'.
Aware of my attraction
to them, she instructed me
on the 7 shakras -
how to meditate them.
That night I had my first
wet dream. I didn't know
how my dress-up ritual
was about to change.

But the problem is I don't
have any concrete images,
that much self disclosure
can't be in my best interests,
so the poem goes unwritten
as I face my days
with 1 estradiol,
two spironolactone,
depo-provera every 30,
and this continual prayer
that I will discover
the womanhood
I never doubted
would blossom
if given a chance.

I pour a glass of anger,
drinking 6-8 8 oz portions
as though it were h2o. I'd guess
anger composes over 80%
of my body and I never
thirst. Even my piss
flows a clear red.

I've become so numb
that even the ants burrowing
inside my chest go unnoticed.
They've enlarged my breasts
at least two cup sizes,
entering and exiting the spot
where my nipples stood.
One would think the holes
in my bra would be a clue.

But that's not where I focus
my passion. I made a perimeter
in a nearby forest, tripwire
at the mouths of spiked pits
beneath a layer of leaves and twigs.
A field of tall grass hides me.
I snipe from prone position,
inches away from my black sands,
guarding the spot where I hope
my ocean will rise.

II

I am at home
at the top of a bluff,
beneath a tree that stands
alone at the edge of a grass line.
Fascinated, I watch the ocean

parade troops along
the shore, rolling over top
of those who came before,
plowing them into the beach.

Flag bearer and his two guards
break first, followed by the columns
of soldiers at 'right shoulder arms'
marching in perfect rhythm, ending
with the mounted cavalry driving
them all under hooves - fallen.

The grasses bow in a slow wave
as though they approve.