Neither
Once, long before an old lover and I broke up, I dreamed we were playing catch with a loaded handgun. Last night I dreamed that you and I were so thin our ribcages pulled at the flesh. We reclined, starving.
When we met you placed a wilting green leaf on my desk that said, in ink, “improper” along the vein. As it stiffened I put it in a glass jar to avoid smashing it under the weight of my room. Careening home tipsy and sad with two near-strangers the other night, I pulled a yellow leaf off a lamp lit tree. In the morning it was already starting to crisp, a darker orange than I’d noticed. Along its vein, in ink, I wrote “neither.”
For my gender, for my heart, for the innumerable areas of my life relegated to nonexistence by binaries and categories so solid even I can barely blur them. What something is there left to have when the all-or-nothingness takes up so much space?
On a cleaning binge, I accidentally set a book on top of it. The fragile stem crumbled.
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