Hello False Potato Mother,

I wrote a poem the other day. Here you go:

The unemployment rate for trans people in 2022 was 18%. The last time that was true for the general population was in the wake of the great depression.

I met a gelded south hoosier 

they/he named Bolt Cutter 

who was cymbal player for the 

peace punk band Brazen Head. 

Word had it they were arrested 

last year for milking a police horse, 

so I asked him about it & they 

just laughed & called me 'darling' 

& 'moonglow.' Really, Bolt, I said. 

What happened? Was this a

planned action? & he said, 

It was cheaper than the stuff 

they have at Safeway

and so, so warm.

I pointed at the glasses lined up 

on the bar & asked him, Bolt, 

what shots're ya doing, can I join? 

& he said MMR, & yes, and I said no, 

I mean, & paused & then just said, 

Whatever, & went to the zoo 

to stare at the lioness. 

She was asleep by the fences 

& I kissed the air at her 

so she would know that I'm in love 

but also that I hate the cage she's in.

Babygirl! I yelled out to her as the 

zoo police were cuffing me for

doing a smelly pee in their zoo toilet, 

Who cares if I can't play sports,

when I can't get a job?, but she just 

yawned at me like everyone.

Jump cut, it's summer & 

I'm snowblind in a deer blind, a cloud of 

midges swarming me in the sedges. 

I'm being hunted, I have a rifle, & my

pulse is so loud it muffles the sniffling 

of the frantic German shepherds. 

I'm hiding, running, hiding. Quick 

bump & I shout to my chosen family, 

Can a bitch get some cover fire? 

& they go off bang bang bang.

I barrel out of my cover

& I do fix my hair first,

but you wouldn't have noticed it if I was cis, huh.

Thanks for reading my poem. Hope you have a good Monday,

Never Angeline North