Queer Haibun

Dear Mom,

I don’t know how to tell you. She was about 5’2.” An inch or so taller than me, brown eyes, dimples, petite yet strong and handsome. I could describe her skinny jeans, her tight-fit shirt, her slender body, the tattoo on her shoulder. I stalked her Facebook and drew her profile picture, her dark shades, her big nose, a chill smile, just drinking another beer on tap, her brown curly hairdo, her sweet spot and I knew it. Or here’s that one with her modeling the suit jacket, blue specs, a white blouse, and slick black pants. We met at the buffet table over cookies. I said, “Go for it. Who cares how many you eat?” She chuckled and said, “I like her.” And with it, what a smirk. I didn’t know anything else about her, I didn’t know then if she wanted to go by they or he or she, but I really liked her, and damn it now I don’t feel bad at all saying so. We went on a few “dates.” I met her for Vietnamese. I don’t know what she knew of what I was feeling, and we never talked about it. Well, we maybe texted later about the way I was from a sheltered childhood. I remember wondering how to even show her I liked her, maybe it didn’t matter, maybe it was obvious, she seemed to sense my curious eye—how I worshipped her like a dame attracted to a prince in shining armor and here she was here we were together not playing not performing just being ourselves in that moment that moment that would fade, two women with nearly flat chests, one in baggy shorts, one in a skirt. I didn’t know who to be. Then I’d learn she had a femme, and she was her boi. So-

I cut my hair short,
start to wear vests;
I’ve yet to kiss a girl.