Positioning an Estrogen patch
on your ass becomes, after a time,
a quick trick in the mirror
and every Sunday is a new one
with alcohol wipes (the sting
becoming, after weeks, a friend)
and of course, no one can see
changes in a few small months,
or really even years, but this white little circle
patches over a wound
everyone imagines,
but can’t stare at on the street
and all of this goes
on a fatty bit of waist
and you have to remember:
the biggest DIY
hint here: avoid
the waistband area at all costs—
the week’s mileage:
high-waisted
and low-waisted
jeans, too tight
underwear,
the wear and tear of living
will slip and slide
the one thing you have
to remind yourself
you’re trying. You exist.
You’re still here.
You have to hold on.
Amelie Langland is a queer, trans artist who grew up in Alabama. She received her MFA in poetry from the University of Arkansas where she was awarded the Carolyn F. Walton Cole Fellowship. She currently serves as an associate editor in poetry at Iron Horse Literary Review. A Pushcart nominee, her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Best New Poets 2018, RHINO, the minnesota review, NELLE, Bayou Magazine, Measure Review, Susurrus, Texas Review Press, and Poetry South among others. When she is not gardening or teaching, she is most likely watching PBS.