My childhood bedroom was periwinkle

there I dreamed instead

of living inside a library

and being a hermit

in a heady cloud of thoughts,

shining ideas, and esoteric philosophies 

 

I hear the color that housed me 

belonged to the Virgin Mary

if anyone, she would understand

the power of a medical miracle

to bring forth a child 

who was meant to be birthed

 

Years later, I sit in my room

strewn with blue, pink, and purple

having fastidiously spread 

alcohol wipes, needles, 

and bandages across my bed

drawing testosterone from a little vial

past the marks and measures of fear 

into the syringe as a sacrament

 

May this be prima materia

the Black Madonna 

And the stuff of which the universe is made

I chose the same beloved song

And belt along with the familiar lines

an interpretation of Plato’s Symposium

 

In this moment, 

it is a treatise on wholeness 

as I transfigure

Great Black Mother, hold me 

Metamorphose me 

in your cosmic cocoon

 

I finish my work before

the beat drops

in time to sing

the origin of love