I've had to acknowledge that form and style are often more important than the messages available in poetic expressions. Initial feelers about getting these two pieces published hinted at that reality. Since messages and meaning are more significant than form or style to me, it makes sense to share these pieces here. The following two pieces were written by Shawna Johnson and offer a perspective I hadn’t been exposed to previously.
In reverse chronological order (and in case you were wondering, yes there is significance to the colors I've chosen to present the pieces):
Drains
I remember a time when you were my daughter.
I looked at your downy head, fastened to me -
A tender ache, a relentless tug.
And I wondered if you, too, would one day gaze down -
look down at a tiny head,
Feel an insatiable, rosebud mouth
drain you dry.
Instead, twenty-one years later, I stand beside you
and
you are my son.
We both gaze into the crimson depths
Of the hotel toilet bowl.
I have emptied your drains for the first time
Since the surgeon made his football-shaped incisions
And discarded the offending, unloved tissue.
Hard to believe
that was only this morning.
You say, “I need to sit down, Mom.”
I do, too.
“Yes,” I say, “We’re drained.”
You smile.
I sit down beside you and hold your hand.
~ Shawna Johnson
Born in Disguise
I have two sons. One was born in disguise.
In November, 2000 you came to me in a dream
A little blond boy in green overalls.
Four months later I carefully set out
blue hand-me-down sleepers,
shirts and tiny pants.
I tucked a sweet blue newborn outfit
Into a brand new diaper bag.
On the operating table
paralyzed from muscle relaxant
Dazed with pain
I hear my mother’s voice: “It’s a girl!”
“Are you sure?”
Okay then! A girl. That’s wonderful!
We call you “Violet”.
First time changing your diaper
A jolt of electricity from the top of my head to my womb.
Something’s wrong.
“This is wrong. I’m sorry,” I whisper to you.
But what am I even talking about?
You are perfect!
I remind myself that it is me who is not quite ‘right’ at the moment.
I am exhausted
Brain signals scrambled from pain killers and hormones.
I’m hallucinating at times;
Probably can’t be trusted.
At two years old I glance over and see you in a pair of green overalls,
Duck-down blond hair beginning to come in.
“Aha!” I say to myself. “So, that was it.”
Several years pass.
You are such a funny little thing!
You dress like a bohemian
You know your own mind.
At eight years old a well-meaning woman in McDonalds
Calls you a good ‘big brother’.
I look over at you in your chosen outfit of jeans and a blue coat,
Short hair combed straight down on your forehead.
I am mortified on your behalf
Quickly explain that you are a girl.
You don’t talk to me all the way home.
I don’t know why.
At twelve you are so pretty.
You favor peasant blouses and leggings.
Male eyes, young and old, follow you.
We are having a meal out and you say,
“I think I might be bi.”
“Okay,” I say.
“She’s buying what?” asks your brother, shoveling in fries.
At age fourteen you get up at 5:00AM each morning
Curl your hair into ringlets.
Cute little dresses and off the shoulder shirts.
You lose twenty pounds
Your shoulder blades look like wings.
They are covered in bloody scratches.
Your thighs laddered with cuts.
You spend most of your time in your room.
That summer you cut your hair.
We go to New Orleans
You fall in love with the art; the culture.
You give away your dresses.
You bloom like a flower.
The boys at school aren’t impressed with the change.
Where are the dresses
The long legs in tennis skirts
The wavy hair?
“What are you trying to do - look like a boy?”
“Maybe,” you say.
At sixteen years old you tell us your new name.
And so “Lee” you become …
At school, at home, at art camp.
Now at seventeen, you don’t fit a mold.
In your transforming body there is
a comfort
a light
a new kind of being.
Though I didn’t know much, I did know this
As I looked at your newborn face:
This is a person
Independent of mother and father.
I can only hope to be a good guide in this life.
~ Shawna Johnson
I remember a time when you were my daughter.
I looked at your downy head, fastened to me -
A tender ache, a relentless tug.
And I wondered if you, too, would one day gaze down -
look down at a tiny head,
Feel an insatiable, rosebud mouth
drain you dry.
Instead, twenty-one years later, I stand beside you
and
you are my son.
We both gaze into the crimson depths
Of the hotel toilet bowl.
I have emptied your drains for the first time
Since the surgeon made his football-shaped incisions
And discarded the offending, unloved tissue.
Hard to believe
that was only this morning.
You say, “I need to sit down, Mom.”
I do, too.
“Yes,” I say, “We’re drained.”
You smile.
I sit down beside you and hold your hand.
~ Shawna Johnson
Born in Disguise
I have two sons. One was born in disguise.
In November, 2000 you came to me in a dream
A little blond boy in green overalls.
Four months later I carefully set out
blue hand-me-down sleepers,
shirts and tiny pants.
I tucked a sweet blue newborn outfit
Into a brand new diaper bag.
On the operating table
paralyzed from muscle relaxant
Dazed with pain
I hear my mother’s voice: “It’s a girl!”
“Are you sure?”
Okay then! A girl. That’s wonderful!
We call you “Violet”.
First time changing your diaper
A jolt of electricity from the top of my head to my womb.
Something’s wrong.
“This is wrong. I’m sorry,” I whisper to you.
But what am I even talking about?
You are perfect!
I remind myself that it is me who is not quite ‘right’ at the moment.
I am exhausted
Brain signals scrambled from pain killers and hormones.
I’m hallucinating at times;
Probably can’t be trusted.
At two years old I glance over and see you in a pair of green overalls,
Duck-down blond hair beginning to come in.
“Aha!” I say to myself. “So, that was it.”
Several years pass.
You are such a funny little thing!
You dress like a bohemian
You know your own mind.
At eight years old a well-meaning woman in McDonalds
Calls you a good ‘big brother’.
I look over at you in your chosen outfit of jeans and a blue coat,
Short hair combed straight down on your forehead.
I am mortified on your behalf
Quickly explain that you are a girl.
You don’t talk to me all the way home.
I don’t know why.
At twelve you are so pretty.
You favor peasant blouses and leggings.
Male eyes, young and old, follow you.
We are having a meal out and you say,
“I think I might be bi.”
“Okay,” I say.
“She’s buying what?” asks your brother, shoveling in fries.
At age fourteen you get up at 5:00AM each morning
Curl your hair into ringlets.
Cute little dresses and off the shoulder shirts.
You lose twenty pounds
Your shoulder blades look like wings.
They are covered in bloody scratches.
Your thighs laddered with cuts.
You spend most of your time in your room.
That summer you cut your hair.
We go to New Orleans
You fall in love with the art; the culture.
You give away your dresses.
You bloom like a flower.
The boys at school aren’t impressed with the change.
Where are the dresses
The long legs in tennis skirts
The wavy hair?
“What are you trying to do - look like a boy?”
“Maybe,” you say.
At sixteen years old you tell us your new name.
And so “Lee” you become …
At school, at home, at art camp.
Now at seventeen, you don’t fit a mold.
In your transforming body there is
a comfort
a light
a new kind of being.
Though I didn’t know much, I did know this
As I looked at your newborn face:
This is a person
Independent of mother and father.
I can only hope to be a good guide in this life.
~ Shawna Johnson
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