by M. McDonough
I threw myself a gender reveal party.
It was over brunch.
My parents & my person were the only ones in attendance.
My mom & dad came to see me a few days after my friend died.
They wanted to have a meal.
I wanted to eat with them.
I wanted to taste something
other than over-salted grief.
So, we sipped coffee & chatted.
Never looked at each other for too long.
I said I am not a woman or a man.
My mom said Why couldn’t you wait until I was dead?
I said I didn’t want to wait until I was dead.
My friend threw themself a gender reveal party;
everyone called it a funeral.
M. McDonough is a poet originally from Denver, Colorado, now living and working in Phoenix, Arizona. Their work centers on queer desire, grief, humor, and the intricacies of gender. Previous work has been published in We Grow Anyway and Name and None.