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At the makeup counter,
they ask me if I need help
with anything.

I look to tell the non-binary angel
with winged eyeliner,
and a name tag that literally says
“ANGEL (they/them)”

and I want to tell them “YES!”

I want to tell them the cairn terrier
of my body has left the basket on my bike
and become something hungry enough
to bite ankles.

I want to tell them
I am a crowded movie theatre
and there’s a fire starting
and the only way out
is through the screen.

But they did not ask for that.

So I hold up my picture
of Judy Garland,
of Dorothy, my Kansas girl
drowning in color.
“Help me look like her.”

Transition is living in a house
on the wind.

I have been spinning since last spring.

Judy landed on her feet and started to dance.

God, do I want to dance.

Angel, help me put color
on my black and white cheeks.

Help me make a musical that shocks the world.

Help me go on a journey with misfits
who are missing something.

Angel, I feel like I’m missing something.

Help me melt the witches
who tell me I don’t belong here.

Angel, I’m here looking for a wizard
to give my friends and I
the parts of ourselves
we don’t have yet.

the TV tells me
to be like Judy
and just take the pills
all at once,
go to sleep,
and wake up a boy in a suit
surrounded by family.

Angel, is Judy Garland back there?

I just wanna talk
then I’m gone.

The wind’s picking up.
My ride’s here.