Queer flirtation

aged 25:
I was in a bar restroom, and when I exited the stall a (very) masculine woman was facing me, casually leaning on the counter looking intense and completely sober. Taken aback, I chose the most logical course of action; I went to wash my hands, just as though there wasn’t a sexy-as-hell dyke planted between the sinks. There was a roll of that cheap industrial paper towel on the counter, and, face burning, I reached for it as she turned ever so slightly and knocked it to the floor. After a nanosecond too-long pause, I bent down to pick it up, but somehow she beat me there, and handed the roll to me as I stood back up, staring into my eyes the whole time. I don’t actually know how she did it, because my mind went completely blank. My legs turned to jello, which up until that exact moment I had thought was just a figure of speech. Without saying a word, she gave me the slightest self-satisfied smile, turned on her heal, and strode away. Bathroom Butch, wherever you may be, I thank you!

1Sagefemme   all rights reserved 2016



Fragile Lover

I met a narcissist in her natural habitat
an audience for her wit and charm
unheeding the warning
glaring neon above her head
blinded by big white teeth,
wanting only to kiss her
to bask in her glorious smile,
to be her captive

until the show turned dark
she had my heart
but wasn’t sure after all
if I was young enough
or pretty enough
to introduce to her friends

and I learned
that complements can mask
that the ebullient Insta-ego
recording, snapchatting,
seeking likes
the most fragile kind of lover

who can simultaneously admire
and despise you
not seeing humanity,
but one’s service
to her self-esteem
damaged way back
when attachments first failed
and love never grew
and that maternal bond

so here I am
the finder of broken things
having learned to turn
and walk away
my worth not defined
by a disrespectful tomboy
with a snappy suit,
a hundred silk ties
and a terrible eighties haircut

1sagefemme All Rights Reserved 2016

Top Surgery

The breasts are gone.
Are you reborn?
Stronger, leaner, more confident?
Stripped of the mammalian reminders
Of paths untrodden.
Your breasts;
Full and heavy,
The hot weight your soul
Now you are free
And as I loved your breasts,
I will love your new chest,
Cannot wait for you to heal
And hold me tightly,
Closer to your heart
Than ever.
You are my love,
In any body
And finding you now,
After my long and winding journey
Fills me with gratitude.
Wake up and let me kiss you
And cry with relief.


All Rights reserved 2016

“Butch” a poem


I am a queer woman,
sexuality leaning hard left of center,
heart fluttering for a dying breed of boi-girls and athletes,
Girls rocking masculinity like music
A furious mash-up of rock and lullaby, muscle and emotion
They may or may not identify as “Butch,”
Purr in a girl’s ear,
Call me Zane, Jordan, Charlie, Mitch;
Walk in comfortable shoes polished to a glassy shine
Or mud-caked work boots and a wind-whipped work-man tan.
They have a thing about
Penises and
A relationship fraught with conflict and desire,
They love tits,
but not on themselves,
The shirts just don’t
They may have a penis in their
mind’s eye,
And sometimes in draw-string bags, in boxes, in drawers,
They like to strut,
Sideways smile at flirty girls,
Buy long-stemmed roses and dapper suits,
They are strong, and fragile,
and oh so complicated.
I love them all,
Want to be Femme for them
(A short-haired,
Small-breasted version
all my own)
Wear matching bras and panties,
Perfume and lipstick,
Catch their smiles in mason jars and line them up
On my window-sill
To remind me that this species
Still exists.
I want to wrap my arms around all of them,
Tell them how lovely they are,
Thank them for saving me from despair
For without them,
My desire would never find a mark.
I want to tell them,
Thank you.
Thank you for polishing those shoes,
Tying a double knot,
Doing bedside push-ups at night,
Perfecting that confident swagger,
Learning how to lead,
And being willing to follow.
Thank you for tolerating the bathroom stares,
For not putting on that goddamn bridesmaid’s dress,
For being such a good cook, or driver, or motorcycle rider,
Thank you for holding my purse,
For sitting in the shade with me,
Thank you for working so hard
On that hairstyle,
The top cropped, or spiked, or waved
Just so.
Thank you for not being afraid
To hold my hand,
And look up at me,
And tell me,
How much you like my heels.

1SageFemme © All rights reserved 2015