i need to rest under a cork oak, or a beech tree
to sit among the ferns
watching the pink bursts of the cyclamens
and the boars, hungry for their round, fat roots.

i need lichen
to paint my exoskeleton in bursts of blue and yellow.
cyanobacteria tattoos
feathering my metal skin, and the
moss
so much of it, quilted blanket with a rhizome pattern.

so i won’t need to learn to sew like my mother
even though i’d love to
there’s never enough time
to learn, to envision
to make things.

transhumanism isn’t here yet
(how could it be?
we don’t even have the time to see
algorithms cannibalize our art
with parasite teeth)
and i need to write down my body
because no hrt will harden me into metal
no transition will encrust me in lichen
or give me holographic moth wings that
shine like chalk drawings.

for that,
i’d need to wait a few centuries
maybe.
(if the oil and the blood-smeared cobalt and the emissions
don’t kill my cork oaks, my beech trees
my fragile cyanobacteria)
cyclamens used to be my grandmother’s favorites.
i used to think i just wanted cat ears, and a tail
ram horns to be fancy
and that was my body beside the body i have.
i still love the cat ears
and the tail and the horns
(my grandmother probably keeps cyclamens in heaven
roots growing among the clouds)
but now i just want to be an old relic
at rest, after everything’s done.