for the young trans man in seat 18F
More than your pink hello kitty t-shirt,
scissor-cropped at sleeve and midriff. More than
your soft chest and the curves of your back,
the flesh under your arms, the way it folds,
like mine over even the softest bra. More
than your binder peeking out below your shirt.
It was your hands. Not their size, but the way
they brushed against each other to clear the crumbs.
Quick, loose and light. Unstudied. More
than your mop of dark curls, your new beard
against the glint of fat silver hoops
in your ears.
