Still a Guy (early transition)

 “The day is about to come, put on your body.”
  —Cesar Vallejo, “The miserable”

 
You had big dreams of being a little girl, and then you dreamt you were a woman.
You felt your spark ignite, your skin open inward like a folding door
to reveal a better skin, more luminous, more even,
a margin from which life could finally work its way in.
 
You felt like history being made
in a world not yet discovered,
a terminated world that picked itself up,
shook the ruin out of its hair
 
and became a woman. You dreamed
the day was about to come, an ecstatic body
you were putting on, grinning and dressed to the nines,
stepping out into the brisk black wind of time,
 
just born and suddenly old, with keys and a car and a license
to try on every color, build a house, vibrate
on subterranean trains,
hand out compliments.
 
You critique yourself as you walk by,
your father’s son in a thrift-store skirt,
lashes thickened but still a guy
beneath the breasts that stretch your sweater,
 
floating above and looking down
on women who are real, telling yourself
you’re better, truly, than everyone you know
you’re not as good as,
 
layering on extra necklaces, signing up for correspondence courses
in how to tell the truth, how to talk to guys
without feeling like a guy, how to talk to women
without wondering when to blink your eyes,
 
what to do when your body rides up
and reveals you squirming inside,
an insect in a jar. How to become a woman, day after day,
and not hate what you are.