Broken-winged sandhill crane on Country Line Rd.,
angled feathers invite pity

Flat tire, home just    out of reach—
midwest bird spotted east of the Mississippi

Headlights gave way to feathered gore,
shiny smear like tar on darkened asphalt,

red eyes peered through coarse sawgrass,
tall and frightening

You wrote your dissertation last fall—
Transgender Bodies Under Surveillance: When Things Become Other

or something similar—an intellectual exploration
of flesh and blood,

some poli-sci bullshit that boils down to
people panic when girl becomes not-girl

That night, I might’ve been a mob-member villager
with a sawed-off shotgun, un-confiscated, uneasy in the heavy-humid air

Imagine it: fear breeds violence,
perhaps reinterpreted as a crippled-bird mercy-killing

headlights cut stark shadows,
bird cries

When does transformation stop being theory and become crime?
When is being left behind preferable to what might come next?

A body is a brutal reality—easier as an abstraction,
most manageable    dead

Trinity Richardson is a non-binary poet and changeling who is raising an evil cat. They have a
degree in communication and creative writing from the University of South Florida and are an
editor for Chariot Press. Their poems can be found in Thread, Brain Mill Press, and more.
Outside of writing their interests include vintage clown dolls, Magic, magic, claw machines,
stories with ambiguous endings, and the fly from Breaking Bad. You can find them on LinkedIn
and at trinityrichardson.com.