Olivia and I are on my bed, all geared up to watch porn.

cleft and butchered, now diagrammed: / this male, this female, which is worse.

My mom seems to have grasped and accepted the concept of transgender identities quite well, but non-binary identities continue to baffle her. She seems to forget that forests exist, assuming instead that all beaches must slope directly into rocky peaks, allowing nothing to grow in between.

They were told to sit “Indian style” on the carpet in front of a small setup made for an audience of small American children. She didn’t quite know what sitting Indian style meant, and since she was the only Indian in the class, she figured everyone would sit like her—on their haunches, knees bent forward.

I have this dream— / they find me / wading in corn fields, / my eyes like the stalk / center of sunflower petals.

I sanitize my stories like I wash my hands–multiple times a day, scrubbing until they pose no risk to others, until they are tolerable.