a permission slip
by Anonymous Writer
it whispered when, on fresh slate of a new state,
i sat on the carpet, pretzeled and peaceful and unkempt,
halloween socks in summertime,
and ate an apple.
it winked at me while i was alone
in my childhood bathroom, the sink handles hyperreal,
as i snapped into realization that
my attempts to control how the world sees me is like
trying to rinse butter off a knife with cold water.
there was the permission slip of strangers who sublimated into friends
tumbling proud bodies into lake michigan, unshaven, unjudged.
wide-eyed little-me whispered that’s allowed? and a chorus sung yes.
it smiled during my interpretive dance to silence
in my kitchen, my brain lit with color.
all i could say was “i’m grover” and
i laughed about how good it felt until the joy
spilled over and out of my eyes.
fuck being on a scale from a man to woman!
i can listen and show up as the person
i wish little-me could meet. i hear
a minecraft and dinosaur kid, a witch-cowboy,
soot balls holding stars, or sometimes a calm quiet.
i can perform as a girl when i’m drunk in a bar bathroom,
slow dance with womanhood when we workshop poems about misogyny,
then i wink in the mirror alone at home
and detach.
here’s the memo i missed: you can have fun
and if you aren’t, go look.
(certainty doesn’t precede joy.)
i was waiting for the world to spin and shake and spit out a slip of paper
saying my gender and pronouns. but we’re each our world.
and we’ll never be here again.
shake and spin and see.
get some sun on your face. you deserve the joy of recognizing yourself.