The Hand That Rocks the Cradle

hello young lady hey
         miss come here I am
    beginning to make
a photo album out
          of every time men
      on the street
misgender me there
          are side by side images—
       of how I look to me
reflected through
          my favorite mirrors
    and how the world
actually unsees me
          on a podcast
       Jericho Brown says
we should be present
          in the moment because
      when we are present
those moments will
          eventually make their way
    into the poem I
am trying to be more
          present while I walk
    down the street these days
because I am afraid
          I have gone missing
     somewhere a few steps
too far behind the gray
          oscillating curtain
    of my own brain I am so
present in the moment
           I confuse myself
      for the reflection of light
bouncing off downtown
         buildings back into the
      rippling waters of Lake
Merritt cradling the solitary
          duck who is searching
     for nourishment in the
murky underside and I
          the me there am so
    present in my baggy
sweats oversized hoodie
          and hat with my handsome
     boi hair tucked perfectly
behind my ears the man
          sitting on the sidewalk
     at 8:30am looking straight
into my eyes firmly calling out
          hey miss come here scares me
     back into believing
I am a wom*n. this is not the gender
          dysphoria
anyone told me about
this makes me walk
different choose a
different route back home
makes me cry more
than my least favorite
mirrors and more than this
fussy idea I’ve been trying
to rock to sleep the idea
I’ve crossed a threshold
of femininity that renders me
less desirable to those
I most desire this idea
that has tangled the dirty
gray curtain of my brain
this is more insidious
this is an allegory
that becomes the premise
of a yet to be written
A24 film starring Toni
Collette Toni Collette will
stand up at the dinner table
filled to the brim with
an unnamable grief
vehemently defending
the way I wear my gender
from day to day from
the me I am while I
sit at the dinner table
she will scream
about the way all she does
is worry and slave and defend
just to get back that
fucking face on its face
so full of disdain
and resentment
and so annoyed well
she will be robbed
of her Oscar nom
even though she will give
us the final performance
crawling on the ceiling
body hanging by the neck
the literal last fibrous
bloody thread because
spoiler alert
she becomes
completely possessed
by an idea and a man
on the sidewalk at 8:30am
who firmly calls out hey
miss come here and that is
the moment her body
no longer belongs
I love horror films
my best friend says
they remind her things
could always be worse
they make the photos
dance in a terrifying way
they rock us out
of the cradle violently
into that endless
comforting trance

Angel Leyba is a Pushcart nominated writer and creative from South Bay San Diego living in Oakland. They are the Social Media Director at Honey Literary and a former Managing Editor at Berkeley Poetry Review. Their words have appeared in Mercury Firs, Dadakuku, The B'k, Honey Literary, Perhappened Mag, and elsewhere. Find them on instagram @_slutstation2 or twitter @xspacebar