Donuts

that I refuse to eat, lined in the window of Peter Pan,

for I want a new body but

get a haircut instead, rolling into the Red & Black again,

where you lounge in your barber’s chair, darksome

and gazing into your mirror, as if inside Versailles,

as if transposing what you dream

into a revolution of my senses, as if I had not

face planted into this shop and refused a beer

for seltzer. The narrative of my heart is Whitney

Houston’s How Will I Know? You softly bump

your crotch against me as you begin to buzz

the side of my head, what’s left from what fell out,

you who wear a pompadour, a white

tank top, and checkered tights; you regret that you

were the one in high school who pulled kids out

of the closet and told them they were queer; press me

against a locker, take me down with your strap-on;

you say that you just bought a beat-up car and cannot

wait to pick up a pretty girl: I have never done that before,

you say, as you taper the back of my head, and ask,

smiling, how much do you want off the front? a finger length?

What would it feel like to bind my chest and

let you undo the wrap and touch the breasts that I don’t have.

But I would not want to show what I tied up. Do you ever

touch your crotch and wish for what isn’t there? Squirming

a little in the chair, I talk to you about getting touched,

as a boy; you tell me you’re sorry. Why can’t I have your

infinite, starlike arms; you who could not

use the bathroom at a wedding without

someone trying to get you out of the women’s stall.

When I asked which pronouns you preferred, you said

you accept them all. We laugh as you lament

that your colleague wore the same pants as you

yesterday. What will I do for Pride,

you want to know. And would I like a hot towel?

You hold it against my eyes and brow; I breath in

its lavender scent, as if you’d raised a nosegay to me,

as if the aroma were yours, somehow; gently

you dab my forehead and brush my cheeks,

lifting the compression

from my face.