In a series of questions.

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1. What the hell is a femme trans masc?

I don’t know? Why are you asking me? What is a shrew doing with it’s cute little eyes all screwed up -

- well, it doesn’t need them to see anymore.

No, but what if it wants to look up at the stars once?

Well, it doesn’t need them to do what it’s supposed to do - shuffle around in the dirt, eat worms or whatever it eats,

-and change the planet one dusty garden-corner at a time, preferably under my sunflowers, please, if you do.

But it does need them to stare into the pondwater when the bird’s bath has tipped over in a fresh thunderstorm so loud the children inside are covering their ears and giggling, and for a moment the little shrew, come out of a dwelling that’s not yet flooded stiff, looks inside and the clouds part and he sees the celestial bodies and pictures god as a shrew in the skies with a nose as long as the sea.

You see?

No.

Ah, but I did. Because I looked in the pond.

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1. How sick are you?

[Overlooking the land outside of the garden, from up on the wall.] Do you ever wonder if God hates us?

No.