sometimes I have a cock in the parc and métro in

the morning and


it’s there at night in an empty bed and sometimes it

meets your touch

(touch that builds shelves that opens doors that clinks pints hands taught to feel this is all wrong that we are dirty)

a touch that tells new stories

sometimes I have a cock and it slides up your thigh and your breath

rushes up each wall and sometimes I have a cock and sometimes it’s ours

sometimes I have a cock and it’s my new language I understand but can’t yet speak


nuns taught me how

nuns taught me how to cum

sister marie patrice

took hours to show us the way the

warm iron hooks doubled back

and beaded the rosary

I knew

sister marie patrice’s desire well

meticulous like the smell of cold metal

and those bloodleather kneelers

her strong hands griping the trinket of her orgasm

I could feel

the way the mother mary

brushed sister marie patrice’s

neck hairs I knew mother mary

made her

 ass clench made


 cunt pulse

mother mary is a shy tom boy I think now

I loved her

because I wanted to fuck her

I don’t kneel for her

anymore I

 pretend I am her

 some trans mother dyke mary

I don’t kneel for her

anymore I

don’t kneel anymore

kneeling is just



look, now

I am mother mary and joan of arc too

fucking myself hard against the

marble walled vengeance of catholic silence


into and through  

the gesture of this affection is

so much sweeter

than being seen by men

vous n’aimez pas les hommes? they mock

we walk on by

my handsome hand on your back

pivot and smirk at those men

finally, I’m

the desiring thing

not the desired

atoms smack around and

split and spew their rejection of

positive or negative charge, see

I’m not


or man

more boy

but also

slightly girl

I bind my chest so I can make eye contact with myself

this t shirt fits right tonight I’m bounding through

your doorway you see me

grin and sweat you see me

you see me and I get to be me with you

me, a boy, me

I swing on monkey bars I orbit around in a space suit I concur that bench I howl your name, see

you let me let this truth of me

ooze all over

I let it out

let it sink into and through

my speech into and through

the way we fuck into and through

my cock-intelligence into and through this

chivalrous kiss


Words by Beatrice Duncan

Beatrice Duncan is a poet and writer. Their current project is a multi-medium novel on queer experience, quantum mechanics and intergenerational trauma. Their poems are published in Paris/Atlantic Magazine. They live in Berlin.


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