My dreams have been confusing,
Mentally distorted, occupied by a
Stranger, a frequent trespasser deep
Within my psyche, who gradually frac-
Tured my personality into conflicting
Sexual halves, ever-present two
Faces of a gender-cognitive coin.
Whilst staring into morning mirror,
I wondered who I was: female version
Of a man, or more appallingly, male
Semblance of a woman. Somewhere
Deep within my brain answers resided,
“Insight” provided by another occupant
Dwelling furtively behind my eyes.
As months wore on, I accepted plurality
Of who we are or were. For certain, I was
No longer who I used to be. I suspected
That enduring presence was ancient past
Life, self-resurrected to share experiences
Through my body, clockwork of earthly time.
Staring back at me, her hazel eyes were
Intense, defiant. She voiced dislike of my
Adolescent blues. They were not what she
Or we desired, preferences of warrior-
Huntress who once migrated an obscure
Planet of taiga-roaming mammoth
Beneath an oblate-red sun, two copper-
Cratered moons.
Eventually separateness conflicted our
Greater understanding of self, who I
Used to be and would become. Over-
Night metamorphosis occurred. Two
Of us merged as one. Remnants of my
Previous self were diminished echoes
Lost within her over-powering thoughts
And rallying hunting songs.
On that telling morning, we announced
To family that deep inside I was not a
Guy but an emerging young woman,
Joyous realization, female sexual plight.
At first, they admonished me for such
Outrageous thoughts. After lifetime of
Hunting in sub-Arctic regions, they were
Easy prey to my predatory hunting tactics.
Some say that I was HRT transgendered.
I prefer retro-gendered, as I am myself
Again. With auburn hair, oft decorated
With beads and shells, I am an alpine-
Exploring archaeologist, who traded
Spear for pointed trowel, excavating
Prehistoric mammoth bones, and
Sleeping restfully in opalescent light
Of a single cold stone moon.
Early morning realizations, world around me
changed, sun and moon reversed, dawning
light, daring metamorphosis of wingéd flight.
This poem is not autobiographical.
Thanks for reading.