Of Feminine Touch,
Of Masculine Sight
Call out to me as I’m a boy.
Call out to me as I’m a girl.
Yet neither right you are.
On the two sides
of the sanitarily jewelled glass
One; a blackened silhouette
of pencilled bushy hair
Tinkling, tip-toeing, scrolling by,
with no screeching eyes,
Two; golden-melt spectres of Spanish Sun
in slender sight,
of sandy, pungent, quickly cut hair
on the tanned skin,
On the masculine, beheld.
Both looking, both touching,
both silent, feverish, of magic.
My starry window of stories,
my wreathed mirror my witnesses:
My body’s ever felt lacking,
hosting yet trapping,
To beat hushed the glass with shout
“It doesn’t feel right!”
To find more of my heart
in the captivity of male’s gaze
Than breasts on my chest.
To find that presence,
Of steadier, lower, of beige fracture,
To my senses than those lips
Or height of a woman.
Stand up, graze, kiss,
Long and linger
In all those persona
of no corporeal,
In all those heats I saw myself in
When in literature’s boys eyes.
I behold all names I wish,
Male or female,
Or of no sex it shall be.
I love for love. Love in love.
Stand back. Admire two egos
of mirror’s glass.
My body can’t hold me whole.
One day I’ll transcend it. All.
As a man I gave birth once,
In my dreams.
I exceed all things my body deems.
No matter in whose eyes I’m found
In my mind,
I greet both the feminine touch,
The masculine sight.
Of Feminine Touch, Of Masculine Sight – Backstage Explained
I find myself emotionally and poetically more in that beige texture and presence of male pencilling that renders great sexual energy without carnal upholdings yet on the other hand I do not desire to imprison Myself in another sex since I want to transcend all those contexts instead of making an upraising that’s going to end with a fiasco in the same starting point more or less.
I love to deem my body as greater art like Asian calligraphy parchment with lilacs, white and browns that has lovely traits one would rather associate with tad feminine portrait yet they’re so gently ethereal that they swiftly merge in a kiss with those traits seen usually as masculine. And it goes the other way round.
There is a deep connection with the fragile and toned beige texture of the male sight, yet not perceived with sex. I breathe out of this concept. On one hand, I disconnect myself from the femininity but on the other hand I don’t give myself over, without freedom, to masculinity. I just perceive most diligent dashes in me that are not connected with these corporeal issues.
I simply belove my presence in that subtle inkling that seemingly “male” attributes possess yet I do not associate them with my identity in full picture nor do I link them with body aspects. Maybe because I Myself have no body and there is no way of making corporeal connections. the intimate spheres of our vessels calmly push me away, they seem to me as an excess somehow.
I won’t get upset at all if you refer to me with “she/her” but I will be happy if you call me accidentally “he/his”, or even better, something that goes tenderly beyond those concepts (though maybe hearing “ze/zir” would to be too funny to bear). Maybe I also find myself more with that male sight, art, because when you look at it without details, it looks so free from any sex, like you can’t see any exact traits defining the gender when covered with clothes.
About the Author: Dante Rocío (AKA Julia Tadych)
A “Non-Writing Poet”, glossophile, phronemophile, a revolutionist & philosopher to be. During the last few months has been succeeding in translating bits of Spanish Poetry, finding the lyric of her stances and glances & undertaking the official translation of “El Chico de las Estrellas” into Polish. Currently, with the school activity next to their life, mostly occupied with learning 11 languages, Chinese Medicine, overdue literature, weaving dreams with Poetry and their forming bond with archery.