Little Boats for Flat Chest Dresses

Mostly he didn't even start wearing skirtsuntil we broke up, again. His parents

can't entirely blame me because in BostonI showed him Judith Butler and he said

"I knew it," and we kissedand went to dinner in our best

dresses. While I sat in Logan Internationalhe began to paint his nails—

asked college girls to teach him how, studiedtheir technique as they brushed with nondominant

hand. My technique is to hopeno one looks too closely.

When I paint my nails it looks likeI've glued red grapes to my fingers.

When he paints his nails it looks likehe's picked the ocean out of my eyes

and wears it better than my irises.I look like I'm trying on costumes that don't fit.

In a hotel room in CaliforniaI picked out for him a teal that matched mine.

He wrinkled his forehead, not wantingto be the couple with matching nails

even if we had been a couple.There is no uncoupling

either of us from our pronounsor our performances.

We don't want to change a thing, just want to performin any lifejacket that keeps us floating.

So many ovations. So many costumes.It was a good show. I can testify he is

as man as ever if you measureby skin and science

and even if you measure by footballand hamburgers. I am as girl as ever

if you measure by blood and curvesand the chemicals in my closet. None of it is why

when we meet, now, between us it is alwaysten tiny oceans crossing ten more oceans

swimming by so many drowned sailorsto reach each other's wrists

loving and loving and unableto keep our little boats watertight.

We don't sail well, not because our performances mixed upor all the boy colors and girl colors turned muddy brown.

Isn't this love. Sometimes,you just don't sail well.