inter

 By Alex Dautova

he was born

a couple decades ago

everybody was in awe-

because, as he was told,

his little lips on his little face

looked like that of a fish, a koi

time flew, and the awe was very gone

he grew up into what they call a girl,

a lovely one, a dancey one, a bubbly one

until she became something inherently flawed,

because how can she be this, and a woman?

why doesn’t the interior work?

legs open wide.

this was never a question,

wide,

they said,

wider.

let me get in,

they said,

because essentially

we have no more cues

thus, we will professionally

get inside

it could be justified

of course, it could be justified

even if it lasted years?

even if the smell, sterile,

became way too familiar?

even if the professionals

could be counted in dozens

and took turns

and most weren’t nice

most weren’t gentle

you still need to be wide.

white

the color of well-known buildings

the color of napkins,

because the cold gel better get cleaned, up

the color of sheets,

of robes,

of the operating room ceiling,

wait,

it was rooms,

it was ceilings

it didn’t matter how many.

hypertrichosis, he read

on his medical record

it’s hyper

because he had

XX in his cells,

that was the verdict,

before he made his first breath

unspecified,

he read in his medical file

did you know they have special codes

for an illness they don’t know?

something they can’t detect?

what’s ICD? what’s OPS?

do you know?

well, he had to know.

oh how he loved

being hyper

(liar)

being a border

(poser)

being a margin

(such drama)

being inter

(sex.)