Jamie Lee Heath

Mathematics

​In which I try reducing you to numbers:

I. Nothing is complete until I’ve shared it with you.

II. Two chocolate bars melting in the back seat.
Two teacups from the shelf, too high to reach.

III. The scarring on your chest.

IV. Studies suggest this could be
the hottest year on record
since 1880. And as we age,
the ground may come to a boil,
burning the flight from our feet.
Still, I think: how
lucky are we
to pilot the same combusting star?

V. The feather-touch of fingers in dawnlight.


Handspeak
To the man in my poetry class,

I was talking with a friend, reflecting
on the pristine pages of her portfolio.
I gushed over the unconditional love
radiating from her stanzas. Her poetry
made me feel safe, warm, and all fuzzy
in my Feeling Cabinet(™). I was excitable,
talking too fast.

​All you saw were my hands.

You limped up beside us and reached
right into our conversation. You curled
your white fingers around the slimness
in my wrist like the cold, bony cuffs
of convention. You held firm, putting an end
to the error I didn’t even realize I made:
“Okay,” you said, “Now talk.”

I talk with my hands. It’s one of those ADHD
things I can’t really control about myself,
like bouncing my leg, forgetting my own name,
or tuning out tired poems about the socially
divisive evils of millenial technology.

My hands are so constantly in motion,
I barely notice their punctuating posture when I speak.
My hands are mediums, possessed by festive ghosts
who have made it their undying duty in this mortal coil
to turn my social life into a one-man puppet show.

Only, you thought this show needed one man more.
I realise now, in this late hour, you were right.

THANK YOU for inserting yourself into my conversation.
Before you so boldly jumped in to save the day,
I only had ten fingers, an other woman, and my train of
---umm like, thought
to keep me on track.
THANK YOU for taking on this task
when you saw my hands twisting and
turning through the tides of turbulence.

You’ve been doing this a lot longer than me,
which obviously makes you the authority
on how a moderately attractive young lady
ought to conduct her own body
in a precariously prestigious setting
such as Glendale Community College.

Where would I even be without
#OldWhiteMen to educate me?
Granting me permission to speak,
stifling all the egregrious gestures
that make a girl
unique?

Silly me.

Silly millenial
with my silly smartphone
and silly Handspeak.
To the man in my poetry class:
Thank you for reminding me.

I’m sorry. I forgot.
Forgot my place,
Forgot my thought.

These hands are far too loud
to be anything but silly.

Aren’t you glad you caught me
so you could set me free?

What could a silly
girl like me
ever be
without a man
around every corner
to take her wrists
and lead?


Sweetie
are you a boy or a girl?
d’you prefer pink or blue?
you don’t want to turn out gay
do you? sweetie, what if
somebody tries
to hurt you?

come on, please? can’t you
pose pretty for me? can’t you
tuck your teeth together
and smile, smile, smile
so sweet you split
at the seams?

can’t you spare us
the responsibility
of “he” and “she?”
can’t you pick one
and make it easy for me?
are you a boy or a girl?

what’s with that face?
d’you have something to say?
what can I do to make you feel safe?
and by the way, is it okay
if I use your dead name,
I mean, your birth name?

just for today,
just while they can see,
just in front of The Family.

they’re going to ask,
so please forgive me:
are you a boy, or a girl?

how does it feel to be different?
when did you choose to be different?
why do you always need
to act so different?
who did this to you;
where did he go?

what did he touch
to make you
different?

oh.

is that it, sweetie?
are you still dangling
from a sick man’s string?
is he the thing
you’re digging out
of your head? is he
at the end
of every wire
cut red?

then answer me this:

are you the girl he hurt
or the boy he created?

with the best of intention, I ask:

sweetie,
are you his victim
or his invention?

are you a boy, or a girl?

are you my daughter, or are you dead?
are you some kind of confused, or just
sick in the head? are you sure
this is you? are you doing okay?

is there a pill you can take
to make this go away?

to make you feel better
so we can get through the day
without confronting
this thing?

this “gender neutral” thing
this “transgender” thing
this confusing and delicate
and sensitive thing. this thing
dripping out of your eyes
and between your thighs.

sweetie
is it asking too much
for you to be happy?

God gave you that body.

is that not reason
enough
to be happy?

© Jamie Lee Heath