Esta Noche

it’s july and i can feel my back start to sweat

striding across downtown

white-lace blouse, my angel’s wings

a tired black skirt i hope no one notices i keep wearing

it’s the only one i got, baby

shit

where’s my wallet

shit

my bulge is showing

im one two many drinks in

the lights are spinning

my tight black boots hold their course

turning the corner—

someone’s yelling

(who is this fool?)

he looks my way,

laughing

“nah that’s a man”

oh…

he’s talking about me

i come up to him

start yelling

cussing him out

like im some trans chingona

he reminds me of some of my cousins

so i yell even louder

he keeps telling me i’m man

like it’s something i’ve never heard before

i say,

i’ll show you how much of a man i am

when i stick it up your culito

oh he really doesn’t like that

his friends stop him

take him away

before the situation gets out of hand

i walk away victorious

im safe

that’s enough

my friends comfort me

pity me

their faces saying

“what a sad little trans life you have mija”

i dont make a fuss

accepting the attention

i keep on striding

but these are the looks,

the violence of looks

of gestures

of bodily reactions

and cues

of casual and unconscious

dismissals

denials

refusals

that keep me wide awake

as i’m burned alive in the summer night

wishing i could be one with the stars