Annie Liontas

For Giovanni
The year my nephew becomes a man,
so do I, I guess.
He calls from boot camp after days of
hand-to-hand combat, voice husky. A few months
ago, at 17, playing Xbox, he could only imagine
what the inside of a gas chamber looked like.  
I do not cry. It’s the testosterone: it
draws tears down to a reservoir
so deep in my body,
they turn to sheet ice.   
Aunt Uncle has a beard now. Aunt
Uncle has a jaw that makes it harder to sleep. Aunt
Uncle still wears earrings and makeup.

I thought it was too late. I did not yet know that the molecules in a body of water go in any direction. Imagine Orlando’s surprise when he wakes up a woman after living decades as a man. Imagine mine when, on the Friday before my 42nd birthday, I inject T for the first time. It’s the color of something that a wasp—not a bee—might make.