Sunday, February 22, 2015


It’s seventy degrees in Denver.
A hive of queer activists buzzes about the hotel lobby.
I see some familiar faces and bump into friends.
Between the superficial hugs and kisses, there are warm and tender ones to be found.
To my surprise I stand on stage in protest.
I swim laps in the outdoor pool and breath in the mile high air every other stroke.
It’s February.
I scream with delight on a rickshaw ride I took into the night and eat half priced sushi.
Sitting on a hotel bed I stare at his pretty sky blue nails and hold back the tears.
I eat chicken enchiladas and ride the elevators.
There’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from my hotel room door.
I call a friend in Virginia.
It’s three in the morning and she’s sad.
I feel empowered my femme identity.
I’m excluded by a radical feminist and caught off guard.
I’m angry.
I feel hot in my new black dress.
I take selfies in my hotel room window and post them on Instagram.
It’s what we do.
The bartender looks like Elizabeth Berkley.
I have another at last call.
I feel dehydrated and have a headache.
My wig is packed in a zip lock bag.
I wait for the shuttle and talk to a stranger.
I complement him on his sharp navy blue wool tweed coat
His dad bought it for him when he started transitioning
My heart stops as our plane attempts to land during a snowstorm
A stoic young man holding flowers waits for someone to return
I am grateful for the ride home