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My dirtbag ex ran out of clay while crafting a bust of his own head for a university class called Sculpture I. He sat in front of a mirror and built the clay up on a styrofoam base until it began to resemble him. By the time he got to his hair, he was running low. He handed me a pair of scissors. As the first curls fell, I understood the intimacy of the barber. The moment passed.
[image: before my recent cut]
I‘d like to have a body like a gun. Long and narrow, smooth and cold and steel, able to hold gunpowder. Instead I am soft like a cushion. I would like to be as taut as a wall. My pulp as protected as a tooth‘s. And yet my body insists. My body offers comfort, warmth, absorbs whatever an id has to spill.
The place where I get my hair cut is chockablock with young trans parents. It‘s not time to worry yet about how I‘ll ask not to be called *mom*. First, *madame* has appointments, ultrasounds, preventative healthcare for the at-risk postpartum period, no energy left over to say *I‘m not her*.
The Berry Takes the Shape of the Bloom | 
