A trail of water behind me, ooze from an alien chamber, 

I am a clone of myself, new to the world.

Scraping the goop out of my ears, I listen attentively, but as the words pass by me,

the syllables streak out of focus, misty, like the mirror behind you.

Don’t be mad, but I have no idea what you said. 

You’re holding a small towel. To wipe off maybe? Temba, his arms wide, you

want me to have this?

You let out a cry of frustration; incorrect buzzer sounds. 

When we hug, your tears mix with my watered-down sweat, 

How comforting—I mean, how disgusting—I mean, how comforting,

whichever of those is more normal, 

whichever reaction is correct. 

My natural accent is just as confusing on the east coast

Not so much City or Jersey as tv shows,

A collection of recollections of media.

Meeting me is a trip, someone said once,

A meandering bus tour driven by a misfit toy,

To many points of interest but never to the point,

Not a girl so much as a girl-shaped thesaurus.

She said to me,

“Have you considered getting on Jeopardy?”
A reference to the fact that I can’t shut up.
I could get myself to Culver City, I suppose,

And hope they pick me

From 10,000 other weirdos waiting in line.

I wouldn’t bet on chances so slim,

But I have written an application

to Amy Schneider’s School for Gifted Trans Girls.

Hope she finds a place for me there.