Born in 1913, Billy Tipton was a saxophone player and pianist who was active in the jazz world for many years as leader of the Billy Tipton Quartet. He led a full life, playing music and acting as common-law husband to five women and father to four adopted sons. Upon his death in 1989, the coroner informed survivors that Billy Tipton had been, in fact, a woman. None of his family, friends or band members had been aware of this fact, due to clever disguise and evasion of government registration.

always you awoke before her,
sweet slow removal from the dents in her body,
the soft pliant breasts, the dark
deep planes, her hidden parts,
the small beads of sweat
in the space where
your bodies came apart.
so as not to disturb her sleep,
you bathed alone, dressed alone,
each pant leg whispering slightly
against the hair on your legs,
suspenders clicking into place,
razor's scratchy slide,
the rhythm of routine.

always was your back turned,
in the nights after the notes had died down,
only your outline against the
light seeping from under the bathroom door,
her already groggy, head-heavy with
dreams, turning slightly at the sound of
your cigar going out, pressed against you
when you were there,
soft where you had roughened,
her convex to your concave,
this harmony of bodies,
the small strains that echoed,
melodies carved into her spine.

always in the dark,
in the afterglow,
she was the reason,
the music, the song.

there is the weight of your voice on the phone;
and here is the weight of my hair on my back.

the hum of the static on the end of the line
as i put a finger to my temples,
crackling, waiting, laden;
the charge in the heart,
the fall of your sounds.

there is your hand, no longer smoothing
the static from mine,
the buzz beneath our bones
slowed to silence, leaden, scaled;
here is my voice, echoing into
those knots at your spine.

the lines i traced through veins
at your brows, my breath electric,
fingertips flare;
a hand on the back, the scale of
our sound, twisting, powered, heavy.

here is the weight on my heart where you're kept,
and there is my signal, always;
the voice, the charge, that incessant hum,
the spark you can hold in your hand.

and all of a sudden my mouth was flooded
with the taste of the rose tobacco we smoked
in the hookah bar that night, pungent and
perfumed and overwhelming, all the people
at the table, beers clinking, laughter, heat,
and all i can remember being conscious of
was you beside me, no longer new and
no longer simmering, and oh i felt such
satisfaction holding your hand later
out on the street and then waiting
for the train, slightly apart from the
others, a unit, gloved fingers
seamless as we stood looking
down at the rats scramble over the
tracks and then in the bright
flourescence and glaring metals
of the subway car i didn't have to
worry anymore, it was simple and
we were lucky, i felt so privileged
and proud to bask in the light from
your eyelashes, and i breathed
in deep, relaxed and shining,
i knew i would soon be
bending above the wishbone
of your body in the dark, the lean
length of you taut and yielding
under my hands, the harsh
sensations of mirrors in elevators
and lighters in pockets cold against
me no longer mattering as we lay
our limbs down carefully, sighs,
steam rising from our skins and
evaporating quickly into those
close bright stars above our heads.

"everyone is entitled to their own individual promised land."- george saunders

i am an individual who
has never been to the desert.
no oasis for me in the midst
of a dust-storm, although
i admit i am subject to
mirages, palm trees, men with scimitars.
in my mind's eye the sand
stretches for miles along
that unbending highway,
cactii beckoning,
every car is red and
for forty days and nights
we wander. it is dry, and so hot.

at night under this wide sky,
i can taste the moon, like manna,
precious gift. the exodus of drivers
leaving diners in the dark morning,
hyped up on black coffee,
butter-stained fingers tracing the
route to a better, a stronger,
a more permanent place,
a place with rain.
i am alone here, mouth
too moist, harem of waitresses
setting up camp over the ashtray.
i order tea, with milk and honey.
a parched illusion through the
windows, sunlight, neon,
god's saving promise.