SmokeLong Quarterly

My jumpsuit straps are tangled up before our date & I can’t unknot them on the hanger, white feather print, time running short, sweat cresting my chest, feeding fabric through openings, no straightening it out, like a misshapen swan, they call the females a pen, boys a cob, you’ll be here any minute & could I keep my pen name & fly like a cob, new gender, new relationships, hands trembling, crisscross connecting this to that, should I cut each strap & resew it, this body cannot be left behind, I must construct new couplings, pressing the fabric body flat on the floor, why can’t I go on a date without adjustments, saunter down a riverside terrace in Providence, admire the gondolas gliding, swans kissing on the grass, cob & pen, cob & cob, pen & pen & when you arrive & say I’m pretty, will you see a straight line from pen to woman, so the swans stop kissing, so I wince at old voices rising up, cords snipped & discarded, people like that make it about their pronouns, some queer people are too broken to fix, no, this jumpsuit is just adjusting to this fleshy body, gentle apertures unclenching and releasing, feathered fabric, I won’t tear you apart or discard you, only realign my body inside, refasten to make a new pattern & who wants to wear a straight jumpsuit anyway, how lovely that when you do arrive in shaggy hair & ripped t-shirt & say I look beautiful, pluck my straps like a banjo, it’s not my sex, but this crooked outfit you admire, your palm an anchor on my back, & we’ll jump into the river like two clumsy swans, off balance, this jumpsuit allows for forward movement, so when we go out, we’ll paddle, then swim, then fly.