I come out to my grandmother every Tuesday.
The recycled air of her nursing home
Is the descendent of the stale air
Of the hospital that resuscitated my soul.

She has lost the chocolate pudding thickness
That she spooned into me.
Now all sharp, brittle corners like her daughter.

At first, I praised the curse that stole
Each precious book, all those Yankees games
From her memory, like coins from a cracked vault.

When I step into her room, I am gloriously transitioned.
A stranger’s daughter, ugly but feminine,
Her cataract eyes finally able to see me.

But the realization always clicks with a flinch.
The trap sprung, she calls me a faggot
Each time, buzzing for someone to
Haul me away.

There is no time to explain HRT or dysphoria.
Her calamitous present is a fast moving storm,
A tormenting resurrection spell
Where we both beg to live
Because when it passes, we are both gone.
My name and her mind, the memories false.
No grandson to fill her kitchen with laughter.
No grandmother to fill my stomach with waffles.

Just two strangers, like we always were,
Ghosts lacking the serendipity to haunt our bodies
In harmony.