Maddie’s Poem

And who says I am not a man?

What man or woman can say which 

or neither I have become

or am in the doorway  of unbecoming?

What empire of self 

do they occupy

and bloody?

Some sad, stupid self I would be

to not accept such frightening power.

Everything is metamorphosis

and we should be most concerned

for those who resist their own great tidal sway:

plastics; origins; styrofoams; bigots.

I know men. I’ve smelled their stink

and held up their big mannequin bodies

from above like a ventriloquist.

Now, a question for anyone challenging

         my manhood.

What authority do you hold?

How many man-secrets have you kept?

How much dirt have you dragged in?

When you open, do you scream?

How many men have you looked

inside of?

And have you seen yourself

through the keyhole? If you haven’t

you could never know.

I know.

I know blood smell and mouth smell

and the self     all swollen

with potential. Most of all

I know man body, I know man tits,

man vulva. I’ve wrung my fists

around myself, felt myself throb, felt myself grow

the way men do.