The Meadow 129 Gender Fluid Jeremiah Zuniga Aposematism describes a species that advertises its danger To potential predators. It says, Don’t fuck with me by way of conspicuous Red, black, and white patterns. R--- is dedicated to being fierce. Thick, curly, black hair cropped short like a Marine, Ink does little to obscure her elven features. She conceals Feminine contours under loose men’s clothing. R--- always carries a weapon and wears a baseball hat So that when her head sinks into my lap in the middle of traffic My only fear is that someone might mistake her for a boy. I met her when my wife was quarantined in the hospital And her wife was held captive in a cage for undisclosed Violations of the law. After a miraculous series of right swipes We exchange our private near-death experiences, expose shared torments. The room is decorated with her hand-drawn illustrations and a pistol Rests on the nightstand next to blunt roaches and a tattoo gun. This is not a place for precautions. I unwrap her one layer at a time To uncover a mural of roses and a crown across her chest that I need To trace with my lips. We never sleep together or watch television Instead of romantic dinners we spend hours in unlit parking lots. R--- does not need a man beyond the occasional shape of one. The pandemic forces us to hide our features like thieves Sliding into an unlocked window to plunder anything of value Inside. Once, distracted by endorphins, I forget to wash my face And my mask is inadvertently infused with her unique scent Something like a cedar box filled with spices from her native land. I grip this trophy in a clenched fist and take deep breaths While I revisit the scene of the crime like a serial killer. R--- gives me a wicked switchblade to keep in my pocket, A tacit pledge of penetration. I reflect on this compelling gift And know that if space grows between us, it only proves We had something true to drift away from.
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