Back then at school,
We had life-skills-
Every week we would be taught, the girls,
Handicrafts by a gentle, lady-like woman.
They taught us macramé, well after it went out of style.
How to unravel and tie-up spools and spools of thread-
Into fancy knots and whirls.
You could hang it on your ceiling
Just beneath the fan, or over your bed.

Then there was the letter box,
Made out of cardboard and wrapping paper.
But not to hang outside, of course.
The glue would dissolve in the rain water.
And the letters would all cry out in jets of blue ink.

Speaking of ink, we made a miniscule brush
Out of old, old pens
And human hair.
It measured about four inches
And you could clean the ridges between tiles
With it,
or brush your moustache
if you had one.
The class was always there
You couldn’t skip it, miss it or play truant.
Life-skills, you will need them when you grow
And you’ll thank me when you flaunt-
Them to your cynical mothers- in-law.

Nipuni Ranaweera

They say
She says
He says

Some say “it“ but are do not mean well.

You say “whatever“
And call yourself a bread
A sandwich.

You joke, you giggle.
I make it real.

Taking things serious,
Taking things literal,
Is a talent of mine.

But the idea of identity
It is a story of yours

These pronouns
Fresh like bread
Wholesome like wheat
Savory like heat
They are just like you

When nothing works
When all feels wrong
Sandwich will put a smile on you

And you
Might give a sandwich
to sandwir

A sandwich
is sandwirs

It is meant to be

Sandwich
Sandwir
Sandwir
Sandwirs
And sandwichself

The mania of grain and wheats
Will never be gone

"why can't I be a man that likes pink,

why can't I be a woman that likes to surf the wind,

why can't I be a man that cries tears of joy,

why can't I be a woman that's not a mommy

why can't I be a man, without toughening up,

why can't I just be

be a human"

Wutherings Bronte

It's a Saturday night in fall
and I'm the only boy at the slumber party.

Our festivities begin outside,
the cool wind keeping our knees together
as we sit by the pool
and discuss how cool we'll be.

Inside, her parents eye me,
like the Terminator
scanning a potential threat.

We play charades
and twister
and paranoia,
and we laugh and judge and scream.

At 10 p.m. we're told to sleep,
and I sneak up stairs to meet the stirring girls
who giggle in anticipation.

They get to work.
They paint my nails,
They make me up,
and at some point of reflection I see
that
I can no longer see me for me.
We fall asleep.

When I awake,
White pillow caked with
black and fleshy pink,
my friends put me back how they found me -
The only boy at the slumber party.

Her genitalthe big "WHY"
Oh! She's born of a ******.
Her ******* a call to say"HI"
Her voicea well to exploit from.
And her physiquejust to have fun.

Her gender role, no one questions
Even the feminists call for attention.
She keeps these, term uncultured.
She unseals these,  term a ****.

Obviously,  kissing is amazing.
Foreplay, Hnnnnn! So appealing.
Undoubtedly, *** is fascinating.
With pain,  how often she tries to fake the  moan.
She enjoys it much,  now a curse.

He walks up to her and says "I love you."
She believes him, he sounds so true.
He lores her to bed_ already in her loo.
When the stomach starts to push through,
He says to hell with you.

Fifteen minutes of pleasure.
Nine solid months in seizure.
Some days in the hospital.
A child without a paternal name. Isn't that fatal?
Such of a child a *******.
And the mother, a *****, who deserves not a ballad.

I am love.
I am wealth.
I hold purity and grace in my belt.

I am strength.
I know pain.
I carry secrets and dreams in my name.

I am she.
She is black.
I hold no titles,
Just a monkey on my back.

the lines o' our bodies blur,
bereft of an exchange beyond
tangible flesh. . .
halo hearts,
button'd mesh,
a phantasmagoria of the sodden bleed
through ink page. . .no longer binary—
—so(u)le singular, inhabit'd by th' other:
we who are unlimited by fine pencil
linocuts of biological congruence.

The Jezebel
Screamth, Not I.
My ******* though dun
Nay, not I.

Forbidden from silence
Banned from breath
The words come spilling
Manned by wrath

My heart lies with you
Of the sorrow that’s within
Fate comes unwilling
Betraying our last wish

Thy spirit soars
Well past the hourglass
And you think I’m thankful
For what is beholden

But again, I say
Not I, not I
My hairs be wires
What belies compare

Beauty without beholder
Leaves room for the wilder

Dame, pretention knows no bounds
Hate hold thy ground