A root,
solid, stolid, alone, unmoving.
Surrendered.
Surrounded by metallic soil,
acid, bases, salts.
The water that drips on me corrodes my surface.

Only the soft mucous fungi soften and enfold my skin,
and they are eating me,
dissolving me,
encasing me.

I was ready to spring.
I had gathered my leaflets,
ready to push forward through this acidic, metallic, soil;
ready to share the light of day with other leaves,
to see that there are other roots,
to be warmed by the sun,
and washed by the rain,
to shelter the grass,
and sense for myself the shade of trees.

Now I fear the worms that burrow through the soil,
seeking my stagnant rotting hulk,
ready to gobble up my last vestige of reality.

Only a miracle can save me now,
transplant me,
restore me,
release my moment leaves.

O God, come and find me in my hidden hole.

Written by: Pat Conover. This was written at a time when it seemed impossible
to both survive and to claim my transgender reality.