JC Alfier

TRANSGENDERED ODE TO MY ENDOCRINOLOGIST

I have failed to tell this more simply.
But it breaks down to this:
the meds she charted on my endocrine

blood-map reached back to my mother’s womb
well before the biblical imprint
of circumcision scored the shadow-country

of a woman yet-to-be born — decades off
in the eunuch-making blue pill
I down with tapwater in the small hours,

in the estrogen gel I spread across my thighs
each daybreak like a sheen of frost, my birth name
unweaving like the wingdust

of a mourning dove printed on the windowpane
of my childhood bedroom, a crescent whisper
suspended just beyond reach.