All I know is this:
he went out for his walk a man
and came home female.
Out the back gate with his stick,
the dog;
wearing his gardening kecks,
an open-necked shirt,
and a jacket in Harris tweed I'd patched at the elbows myself.
Whistling.
He liked to hear
the first cuckoo of spring
then write to The Times.
I'd usually heard it
days before him
but I never let on.
I'd heard one that morning
while he was asleep;
just as I heard,
at about 6 p.m.,
a faint sneer of thunder up in the woods
and felt
a sudden heat
at the back of my knees.
He was late getting back.
I was brushing my hair at the mirror
and running a bath
when a face
swam into view
next to my own.
The eyes were the same.
But in the shocking V of the shirt were breasts.
When he uttered my name in his woman's voice I pa**ed out
*
Life has to go on.
I put it about that he was a twin
and this was his sister
come down to live
while he himself
was working abroad.
And at first I tried to be kind;
blow-drying his hair till he learnt to do it himself,
lending him clothes till he started to shop for his own,
sisterly, holding his soft new shape in my arms all night.
Then he started his period.
One week in bed.
Two doctors in.
Three paink**ers four times a day.
And later
a letter
to the powers that be
demanding full-paid menstrual leave twelve weeks per year.
I see him still,
his selfish pale face peering at the moon
through the bathroom window.
The curse, he said, the curse.
Don't kiss me in public,
he snapped the next day,
I don't want folk getting the wrong idea.
It got worse.
After the split I would glimpse him
out and about,
entering glitzy restaurants
on the arms of powerful men -
though I knew for sure
there'd be nothing of that
going on
if he had his way -
or on TV
telling the women out there
how, as a woman himself,
he knew how we felt.
His flirt's smile.
The one thing he never got right
was the voice.
A cling peach slithering out from its tin.
I gritted my teeth.
And this is my lover, I said,
the one time we met
at a glittering ball
under the lights,
among tinkling gla**,
and watched the way he stared
at her violet eyes,
at the blaze of her skin,
at the slow caress of her hand on the back of my neck;
and saw him picture
her bite,
her bite at the fruit of my lips,
and hear
my red wet cry in the night
as she shook his hand
saying How do you do:
and I noticed then his hands, her hands,
the clash of their sparkling rings and their painted nails.