I pass through it. Vomit in the rain. Pockets
of the rain open. The rain keeps referring to me.
I ask the rain to refer to me.
The rain understands. They say to me:
I am the rain, a raindrop is like a finger.
I understand the rain. The rain tells me
what it’s like to drip off my attire.
I tell the rain we are not so different after all
the fighting that happened indoors. It was
the panties, wasn’t it? The family finds that
I have contradicted myself. The family
finds my closet, the one I
I’ve kept in parenthesis. I am told that
people don’t need to see that stuff. I’m called
transvestite, called crossdresser, called out, pulled
out of the closet where I keep my clothes. I am not
familiar with the “lyric I,” the lyric I walks up to me,
shakes my hand, hugs me, helps me pull the skirt on,
helps with my makeup, tells me what it’s like
to drip off my attire.