Dude at Dupont Circle says
my legs look pretty
says
they look edible
says
they look like dessert
wonders why I look deserted.
But Dude at Dupont doesn’t ask
why my voice keeps slipping octaves.
Shaky jazz hands
on my baby grand body.
Doesn’t ask me my name,
just my age.
asks which laws we
would be breaking
asks me to live
my body an unlocked house.
Goes to catcall another woman’s cat paws
and I know my body too loud
to not be seen leaving early
my noise too heavy a concert
to end at noon.
And I get this kind of Marco Polio
silent applause
these small bombs
these grenades in my fists
when Dude at Dupont comes back
knowing me easy.
Says, people see him a kind of blues dance.
says, people see him cute
says, he knows me like
hooker shame.
Says he’s a real man.
Says he’s fucked a tranny before.
he, a real man,
ends my concert for me.
My jazz goes off signature,
my bass is free form
my rhythm asthmatic.
Dude at Dupont asks me
if I think his realness cute
his Real Man cute
asks me if Other Woman would be fucking him
knows it is not her choice
asks me for a cigarette
but doesn’t realize that there is nothing of me
that he has not already tried
to take.
And that there is nothing beautiful,
or cute,
or musical,
about my legs dessert car,
about my body, a complimentary breakfast.
Alain Ginsberg (they/them) is an agender writer and performer from Baltimore City, MD. Their writing focuses on gender, sexuality, mental illness, and trauma. They’ve been published by Transcendence and Great Weather for Media, as well being a 2015 Capturing Fire finalist. Alain has no relation to the beat poet or supreme court justice, but would still talk to either of them if they had a dog to hang out with in the process.