I am the man who imagines
he is woman, you the woman
who traces the lines
of the man she might have been.
In this garden where trees
are diving bells of shade,
we swim to our chairs
with books in hand
seeking the sea-change
of another story.
In the dark
when legs and arms
wrap body to body,
how can we tell us apart?
But the difference
is reason for the act.
Under the brim of your hat
you read aloud,
sharing a page.
Words shake air
against my inner ear—
and we’re one mind
answering to itself.
How can we help
but make each of us
neither one
but this other,
floating in your womb?
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