alone in my apartment,
midday sun slanting through the
half-drawn blinds,
jolly roger fluttering gently in
one window, trans pride flag in
the other, i find myself feelin’
some kinda way
kneeling, though never in prayer,
i pull out packer, pouch, and
two different jockstraps
moving to stand out of view
from down on the street, i nestle
the packer into the pink jockstrap
and put my shorts back on
spend some time adjusting the
packer, wishing i had a full length
mirror, but sufficing with the little
vanity that lives by my coffee maker
in the open doorway between bedroom
and kitchen, i palm the length of
the packer through the front of my shorts,
wondering if the novelty of having
a penis ever wears off for cis men
still feelin’ some kinda way,
i take out a black knee-length skirt
patterned in rainbows that so rarely
leaves the dresser drawer, and
slip it on
and i feel an all caps
kind of GOOD
and the grade A 100%,
genuine article,
bonafide,
GENDER EUPHORIA
i feel could power a small city
(and i slump down in my
ratty desk chair, knees loose and open,
palm myself through the front of the skirt,
imagine some faceless lover
running their hand up the inside
of my thigh and pulling aside the
jockstrap to get at the packer
picture them unraveling me like
divoting a thumbnail into the supple
skin of an orange, peeled in one long strip,
and taking me in like each segment,
juices running down their chin)