You’re neither fish nor fowl
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your mother likes to say,
                      meaning, You’re the age
            you don’t know
what you want. Neither boy
                      Nor man.
            Not male, not female.
You’re always bumping into walls,
                      doors, trees, people,
            as if your body’s just sprouted
wings, and the world’s more cramped
                      now. The feathers trail
            along the ground. No matter
how many baths or showers,
                      you can never get clean.
            In the mirror you lift
your arms and there’s nothing
                      attached to them.
            But when you dive off a rock
or pull yourself out of water—
                      what used to be
            second nature—you’re lifting
the whole pond with you, the trees
                      reflected there,
            all that weight stitched
to your shoulders, the itch,
                      the rank odor
            of rain dried into this fluttery
armor, an affliction of feathers
                      woven to you.
            Breathe. Can’t
breathe. Drown. Claw
                      at the sky. The air
            like water.
The water over your head.