At the makeup counter,
they ask me if I need help
with anything.

I look to tell the non-binary angel
with winged eyeliner,
and a name tag that literally says
“ANGEL (they/them)”

and I want to tell them “YES!”

I want to tell them the cairn terrier
of my body has left the basket on my bike
and become something hungry enough
to bite ankles.

I want to tell them
I am a crowded movie theatre
and there’s a fire starting
and the only way out
is through the screen.

But they did not ask for that.

So I hold up my picture
of Judy Garland,
of Dorothy, my Kansas girl
drowning in color.
“Help me look like her.”

Transition is living in a house
on the wind.
Spinning.

I have been spinning since last spring.

Judy landed on her feet and started to dance.

God, do I want to dance.

Angel, help me put color
on my black and white cheeks.

Help me make a musical that shocks the world.

Help me go on a journey with misfits
who are missing something.

Angel, I feel like I’m missing something.

Help me melt the witches
who tell me I don’t belong here.

Angel, I’m here looking for a wizard
to give my friends and I
the parts of ourselves
we don’t have yet.

Angel,
the TV tells me
to be like Judy
and just take the pills
all at once,
go to sleep,
and wake up a boy in a suit
surrounded by family.

Angel, is Judy Garland back there?

I just wanna talk
then I’m gone.

The wind’s picking up.
My ride’s here.