For my trans dyke sisters
Perhaps excessive neatness, or a scar
that spirals round the hood. You press your lips
against it, and she squirms up with her hips
and you lose track a moment. We all are
so prone to giggles of astonished joy
that what was hard won was a total gain.
Fingers force inner scars, a little pain
but worth it. She is wet. Let’s not be coy
Some of us love our sisters. On a date
saves time, we can avoid the big reveal.
They told us we were sick. Here’s how we heal,
here’s how those storms of self-contempt abate.
We bite and lick and groan in sweet surprise
then check our lip gloss in each other’s eyes