Retrans My Body
Andie Sheridan
If I were to retrain my body, I would un-fondant the hills of my stomach. (Let’s be real, a knife
would be involved.) I would know what wisteria looked like and more specifically, what it
looked like wrapped around my forehead. Out of each sparse eyebrow. You would help me pluck
them every day: hedging at disbelief. It would look like living till thirty.
My hands would be able to be complete, sans you and yours.
I would make sure to be mistaken for a cowboy most of the time. Even when my bed became
part of my body. (Same as the depression that makes a word-shepherd out of me.)
I would retry having a healthy relationship with you. Not sure that it would work, but the effort
would be there. Real-talking it over in the mirror before I made a dentist appointment over the
phone. Retracting my paper-fish lips’ instinct to swallow themselves. I could bring my mouth to
our blowups instead of retreating. You could try not making snide remarks at the tattoos that
crop up on my arms like obstinate living.
Daydreaming could be my fifth limb. (My life-carcass might then feel like home.)
I would buy love-sickles to shackle myself to joy. I would carry them with me everywhere I
went. I would take my body everywhere to not-disappear.
Vivifying myself was the point. (The garden gloves would insist that I think about transitioning.)
My heart is always afraid of going under-and-asunder. Maybe I wouldn’t have to self-assimilate
to feel like myself. Wheelbarrowing away at every turn without any end in sight.
would be involved.) I would know what wisteria looked like and more specifically, what it
looked like wrapped around my forehead. Out of each sparse eyebrow. You would help me pluck
them every day: hedging at disbelief. It would look like living till thirty.
My hands would be able to be complete, sans you and yours.
I would make sure to be mistaken for a cowboy most of the time. Even when my bed became
part of my body. (Same as the depression that makes a word-shepherd out of me.)
I would retry having a healthy relationship with you. Not sure that it would work, but the effort
would be there. Real-talking it over in the mirror before I made a dentist appointment over the
phone. Retracting my paper-fish lips’ instinct to swallow themselves. I could bring my mouth to
our blowups instead of retreating. You could try not making snide remarks at the tattoos that
crop up on my arms like obstinate living.
Daydreaming could be my fifth limb. (My life-carcass might then feel like home.)
I would buy love-sickles to shackle myself to joy. I would carry them with me everywhere I
went. I would take my body everywhere to not-disappear.
Vivifying myself was the point. (The garden gloves would insist that I think about transitioning.)
My heart is always afraid of going under-and-asunder. Maybe I wouldn’t have to self-assimilate
to feel like myself. Wheelbarrowing away at every turn without any end in sight.
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Andie Sheridan (Pomona '21) is a Chinese-American genderqueer poet exploring trans rebirth as well as transracial adoption in creating new worlds, new bodies, new words.
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