Creation Myth Ghazal

For years I stared at the mirror, begging to see someone new,
and I named myself river; a place to begin, to become new.

Like movement of water, or stillness, or peering
down in the deep and seeing a reflection, new;

and pulling myself out, dripping wet, to sculpt my face
and play with clay as I craft my self into someone new.

I build with tenderness. I learn to walk again,
discover old habits that must be undone. New

body in which to understand, to carve a place into the
earth, creating rebirth, creating resurrection new.

A creation myth of sorts, a self-made man
brought about from something that I once knew:

When two rivers combine, it’s a confluence—
neither the same as before, as the river runs new.

Poem In Which My Fake Dick Sets Off Airport Security

Here’s the thing: The TSA agents are used to seeing fake penises that are erect—
dildos, strap ons, vibrators; that’s not uncommon—it’s when the fake dick is flaccid
that they get confused. I pass most of the time, and I’m wearing a packer in my pants,
like I usually do, and I’m not even thinking when I walk through the full-body scanner
and the alert goes off. I don’t know what the machine communicates but I imagine
it says: There’s something here that shouldn’t be!
Or maybe: There’s nothing where there should be something!
Or maybe: Where there should be a human extremity exuding heat is a silicon facsimile,
and you are not normal, and neither is your body!
They pull me to the side. They ask if I’d prefer a male or a female agent. (Do they ask
that question to everyone?) I don’t care, whoever’s closer, just get this over with.
When I took off my shoes and my sweatshirt, should I have taken off my masculinity too?
Packed it up into a plastic bin and sent it down the conveyor belt for an x-ray
inspection? And then there’s hands on my body, pressing my leg, feeling, again,
for things that are there but shouldn’t be. This is my fault, of course, because normally
I skip the fake dick at the airport for this exact reason. It’s my fault, of course, because I
made the mistake of being transgender in public. My eyes stay locked on the scanner
as my body is searched. You aren’t supposed to be here, the machine tells me.
You’re not how things are supposed to be. I glare back at the machine. I don’t care.

I exist whether you comprehend me or not.
My dick exists and so do I.

River Vetter (he/they) is a queer and trans poet currently working towards their MFA at UMass Boston. They enjoy vital and visceral poetry. Their work has been published in Impossible Archetype and other forthcoming magazines.