On the way home he asks me, If we cut off our 
penises then we’d be girls wouldn’t we Dad, 
my little boy in cowboy boots and a long black dress 
walking home from Castro Street playing 
blue fairy and wicked stepsister and lost princess as he 
walks, the people and store windows whirling by

as he twirls only figures in fairy stories he knows by 
heart, though what he doesn’t see yet is that our 
neighborhood’s a kind of fairyland for real—still, I hope no one heard him 
ask me that, and hope my Dad 
who is dead hasn’t heard, who would never have let me play
boy and girl with this frightening freedom, dressing

up in public or alone in a four-dollar thrift-store dress 
we bought because he asked for one. A drunk careening by
asks, Why who are you some kind of superhero, son, and from a display 
window video porno stars sweating under harsh light smirk in our
faces—I don’t have to tell them who I am now do I Dad—
No it’s a dress, the guy’s friend says, I’ve seen him

around before, that boy’s always in costume, he 
must be a little fag. Ken dolls in white satin dresses 
and angel wings and hairless Barbies done up as leather Dads 
are climbing a Christmas tree inside the card shop by
the pizza store, some queen’s fantasy scenario of what our 
mothers and fathers should have let us play

back where we come from, but my little boy likes to play 
the girl parts of stories for reasons of his own, he 
likes their speeches and their dresses and shoes, we tell ourselves
it’s harmless, wanting to wear a dress, 
harmless as my nervous laughter to passersby 
and what do I apologize to them for, Dad—

When I was a child I wanted to wear my Dad’s
work shirts, I liked the smell of his Army uniform, I didn’t play 
girl games, don’t look at me. My little boy is getting distracted by 
the dildoes at the sex shop I try to hustle him past. Soon enough he’ll 
learn to leave his dress at home, will hear somewhere that a boy in a dress
cannot be beautiful. Once inside our

house he undresses by the mirror to be naked under the dress, 
and lifts it up to display what most of us keep inside our 
pants, and he asks me, a little afraid for the answer, Am I beautiful, Dad—