Bruce Springsteen Visits Me at the Doctor’s Office

Maybe he can re-shape the doors. Maybe he can carry me through.
Bruce’s arm winds up to play. His first notes roil with confused sorrow
with ache. I want to clothe myself. I want to change
my hair, my face. While Bruce sings, I consider his boyish figure
I never wanted it. I never wanted mine either.

My Bruce feels the same way. The two of us are flickering
in and out of being. But the doctor doesn’t notice.
Her fingers continue to probe. She doesn’t care for
the slick grief covering my nude form. She cares only for
the pieces she probes. How embarrassing it is to have my cervix
wanted without the rest of me. How exhausting
to be a nude reclined with breast but not a girl.
This table was never meant for my body. If it was made for Bruce’s,
he might save me. But in my doctor’s office, The Boss is trans too.
You can’t start a fire while your body is probed apart. I can’t
look at fires without anticipating the threat of being marred.

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Kaiya Gordon (@ayobaio) is a poet and writer from the San Francisco Peninsula. Currently, they are working on a multi-modal chapbook exploring representations of gender as technology, teaching a Cyborg Adaptation class at The Ohio State University, and learning how to develop networks of care outside of state institutions. Kaiya’s poems have been published by poets.org, Cosmonauts Avenue, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere. Their favorite karaoke song is “Basket Case” by Green Day.