Five Act Lakeside Mirror Stage
ACT ONE
It’s spiritual & I’m sorry
if you’ve been told it’s not.
Look at these buoyant birds,
the erotic bee needles,
how our hands wrinkle perfectly
to embrace each other, how
I’m unsure if this is all ours,
or if any of it is even me.
I’m scared of wakes. Other
than with you, I don’t think
I’ve ever had a good fall.
ACT TWO
The first trans
person I met barely wore a shirt.
At home, he let his skin-
tone scars shine like an Adonis
allowed to grow old.
I’ve never met wrinkles
more hard fought—a belly
more round & sacred.
The gray wisps of his ears
whispered: grow old & ripen
yourself with breasts.
I now say: someday I’ll miss the purple
lights dripping across our eyes &
oh how lucky we were
to drape our bodies in pollen.
ACT THREE (Interlude)
Music seeps into my ear like a cold lover / I wish I didn’t remember / my first flower / its color—lost to a fog like today: the morning / forest leaches into my mouth like a cough / drop / my boots slosh into the ground & I am told dandelions are weeds—bad / & not to be trusted / poison has happened on my trail / where is my neon summer? please find your way / into my mouth / dig deep into my lungs / allow yourself to be exhaled / and re-inhaled by passerbyers / in bed / allow me to become / the cosmos with my lover / let her inhale me sweeter / grief happens / in the ears / when a symphony ends / let me pretend my first flower was purple & soft & velvet / I have written / words on my body next to my tattoos of a blue flower / in felt-tipped pen / I read: I want greater fluidity to fuck up / a poem /
ACT FOUR
The desire to change is spiritual
& I’m sorry if you’ve been convinced it’s not.
The birds are many & float
gloatfully on the waves.
How tender their feathers are
for protection in this cold, Fall
lake. Don’t you hate
how red my nose & cheeks
become in this breeze? Wait!
Do you see the bird?
The wakes of the boats?
Do you see how it struggles
like a bee pallbearing its sister?
In a room filled with a heart
wallpaper, what do you think happens?
Do you think the bee
stares into his sister’s eyes? Over night,
during her prudent wake, what other
futures does he imagine?
One is for the pollen uncollected.
Two is for all words unreachable to her.
Three is for the now. Tomorrow the bee will be
covered in leaves, given her favorite lipstick,
& marked with a stone:
Here lies Petunia, beautifully unchanged.
What is a poem if not an offering
of my body?
ACT FIVE
In front of the lake’s mirror, I’ve been
trying to understand my hand.
Truthfully, I don’t want to die.
That’s lonely though, isn’t it?
My red isn’t your red nor purple & purple.
When we die, it'll be alone. Stupendously
lonely. I’ll never get to tell you about it.
Will it be enough? Will your love carry
me into that liquefying dark?
In front of my mirror as I stick
myself with a needle & plunge an inch-
and-a-half deep, I pause. I tussle
my de-receded hair, hang on-
to my breasts, & push
the estrogen in.
Sappho Stanley (They/She) is a trans poet from Appalachia. They are a poetry candidate in The Ohio State University’s Creative Writing MFA where they serve as Poetry Editor and Production Editor at The Journal. You can find their work in Waxwing, New Delta Review, & West Trade Review, as well as others and you can find them on any social media with @sapphostanley or checkout their website SapphoStanley.com