I lack the vestigial hips to claim
only to the sea.
I spend too much time parched astride the shoreline
looking to land believing
it could love me back.
And every time I venture I find my skin ruptured
by the heat of this assumption,
that I am built for that environment.
But I’m terrified of drowning;
by the apparent peace of water —
that its depth
can be as dangerous.
Yet — the whales knew this too
at least for now I’ll turn my back to the earth.
Possible witch, definite bitch, and full time disaster Helen Robertson is a genderqueer trans woman moving through the lifelong process of accepting how lucky they've been; using poetry to excise their ire and sorrow — hopefully turning it into something worthwhile.
Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in The New Quarterly, The Fiddlehead, The Puritan, The /tƐmz/ Review, and others.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan