by Sari Krosinsky
When my parents dropped me off
in the city after my great aunt’s
funeral, I told them it was to meet
a friend—true—but didn’t mention
he was keeping me company
while I saw a surgeon about
hacking off my breasts—
the one thing I needed
testosterone couldn’t do.
I’d cupped earth in my hands, scattered
it over the slick coffin. Absorbed as I was
in myself, I could at least
get my hands dirty for family.
Later, the dark wood paneling and
shadowed corners made the room
I undressed in like a warm, dank
cave. Looking over my down-pointing
breasts, the surgeon was sure
my insurance would have mercy
on my back. They didn’t, but
I told dad before I knew.
He’d taught me to distrust Western
medicine; he couldn’t understand
how I needed it. He promised
he’d be there anyway when I woke
to drive me home, to love me.
Sari Krosinsky's first full-length book, god-chaser, is forthcoming from CW Books. She co-authored a chapbook, Yossele: a tale in poems, with Robert Arthur Reeves. She publishes Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. Her poems appear regularly in literary and genre magazines. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.
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