"It Should Be CDO" and "They/Them Half-Life"

“It Should Be CDO”

Six chocolate squares of anthelmintic
(sold to Australian children) rush-
delivered to my Nevada apartment
is when I know there’s a problem. No,
it’s on my knees—prayer formation—
in front of the toilet, prodding waste
to find escaped proglottids, forty-
niner-style. Or, it’s devouring 3 a.m.
subreddits five nights in a row
(& counting), memorizing parasite
shapes & symptoms like the map
to an unknowable utopia. Pretty
people enjoy saying their penchant
for a neat desk, an organized room,
means they’re so this. I’d be laughing
if I could take a break from analyzing
my anus, head upside-down, full-
length mirror inches away. Maybe
I’d chuckle if I stopped searching
my bed for flea dirt. (I think I found
some! You just place the specks
on a wet paper towel & observe
whether the sheet turns red. Oh,
it didn’t change color.) I wish
it were cute for my orbitofrontal
cortex to misfire. But it makes you
more productive, right? Again,
too busy to respond. Ask me
about the urge mid-meeting to finger
my rectum in case the itch indicates
a pinworm infestation—you might
have my attention then. & yes,
you’re correct, this is all for attention.
My love affair with certainty
is the greatest party trick. In fact,
I’m not crazy at all.

They/Them Half-Life

I fear being left
for a woman, not a man.
Because it’s happened.
Because I’m enough 20

for him to fuck but not enough 80
for him to marry. You’re not like
other guys, or You’re so pretty,
or I want to fuck you in a dress.

At least gay men treat me
like syphilitic insanity,
a glittered ghost they wish
would vaporize, Ew, what’s that?

Instead I get matchbook kisses
from divorcees & storm chasers
who ravish androgyny—a splash
into both without the commitment.

I wonder how personhood feels,
but just call me false dichotomy,
the neon scoreboard across my skin
that determines fuckability.

I’m supposed to enjoy men seeking
my combo of blouse & flat chest,
skirt & black leg hair, but what to do
when the someone glancing back

is the kingpin of fetish objects?
I’m a bi-pan-demi devil’s net.
I scared the last gay man I dated,
What am I if I’m with you? Forever

a question mark, always the codex
to another’s search for self.
It doesn’t matter what I need.
Pick a number between 1 & 100—

I’ll tell you the rate at which my body
becomes anything at all.