Michael looks through the camera sights
towards twilight;
One or two stars emerge from his flesh
As he spreads out, like a girl, his long hair:
He is trying to hide his male flesh.

The language of twilight seeps from his flesh
to my flesh:
There’s mutation of birth, person, name.

From his male flesh, Michael mines for the hidden breasts, vagina,
all female desires.

In the black coffee dark he touches me and says,
“From now on I’m Victoria, I don’t know anyone called Michael.”

I gaze through the camera at the soft flesh;
I observe fear circling over Victoria,
Assailed by the cheap jokes of men, their fun, their gags.

Michael returns with the light of day;
In his eyewater, there floats Victoria’s raped flesh.