Going through my older poetry, I found this and realized that it was, sadly, once again relevant.  Shortly after I transitioned someone pointed me at another transwoman and asked me if I'd talk to her.  I wasn't sure what to say.  Was sure I'd screw it up, but didn't.  Just knowing she wasn't alone seemed to be enough and we talked through what she wanted and, well, after that she pretty much took off on her own journey.  I lit a candle, (OK, a roman candle - she turned out to be a firebrand,) but I'm still proud of that.

Awakening

How can I thank you

for showing me
that slipping

through the cracks
is not my style
and honesty demands

some elbow room
which often means

pushing back,

or shouting
when talking

should suffice.

 

No one sees the quiet ones
and the woodwork

can be a comfortable place,
but if each of us

carves their own secret niche
then how can we survive?

 

How can we learn,

if not by example?
Lessons must be:

written down,

carved in stone,
drawn on canvas

made tangible,

or they fade.

 

The invisible

cannot teach,
cannot cure illness,

cannot tend wounds.

We can only be of use

to those who see us,
can only help those

who know us well enough
to think to ask for it.

 

Now, a voice

comes out of the woodwork,
my own tenuous hold on honesty
reaching out and catching
at the timid threads

of someone else’s courage.

Pain finds pain conquered

is cancelled somewhat,
and, for a while,

every stare,

every turned head,
every rude remark ,

and lost friend,
seems a small price to pay.