[ No plain Jane ]

From the moment she walked into the the room 

I was struck:

heavy lined eyes almost overwhelmed her face, 

her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail

that brushed against her hips as she walked. 

She was a fucking universe

disguised as a woman.

I’d never wanted anyone more.

All the boys I’d kissed

seem so insignificant –

string lights trying to outshine the full moon.

I was silly putty in her hands,

she could make me any shape she chose to.

I don’t think she ever knew

the way she blasted my world apart

and let me emerge as someone new.

We lost touch quickly,

as crushes tend to do.

Still, I can never forget what she made me feel, 

it’s written all over me underneath my skin: 

queer, queer, Queer!

It might as well be the oxygen in my blood. 

Thank you, Jane, for teaching me to breathe.

[ not woman ]

Woman.

The word flows smoothly off my tongue 

except for the tiny, jagged piece

that lodges in the back of my throat 

and refuses to budge.

I’ve never spoken fully before;

that little piece has always cut off a part of my voice. 

I will speak my truth in full now:

I am not a woman.

Nor am I a man.

I live somewhere in the glorious space between the two, 

dancing on the stars sprinkling that sacred universe.

I circle woman like a moon,

never quite touching.

Ah, this is what it feels like to live in my truth, 

finally free to use my full voice.

Poetry by Maggie Olson

Maggie Olson (she/they) is a poet and adventurer who lives in Chicago with their spouse and a cranky box turtle. When they aren't writing you can find them in the woods or on a beach somewhere. Find more at maggieolsonpoetry.com