There's something nearly all
Cis women I know have.
It's not a vagina.
It's a couple of other women
From high school or college 
That they either see or call
On the phone every so often
And talk about their feelings.

I do not have this. 
I do have at least a couple of “the boys”
Who survived it all
And remained interested 
In being associated with me.

No matter how many kind 
And perceptive, amazing women
Let me in to their world 
In a million little ways
I will not have this.

I feel like a rough thread 
Ripped out of the social fabric of manhood
And trying to weave into the delicate latticework 
Of womanhood too late.
And I know, listener, that I am softer than I know,
That I am dyed in purple 
More precious than that sent for from Phoenicia,
And this is true.
But let me tear my business casual blouse and lament, 
OIMOI TALAINA
Untranslatable scream, bones of sound.