One Poem by Aeon Ginsberg

Field Dressing My Body for Easier Transportation

The doctor that prescribed
       my hormones did not bother
              to tell me how to administer
                     the injections into my body,
              so I can’t expect my future surgeon
       to let me know how to dress myself
in preparation for consumption.

When I slide my slender needle in
       it is easier to guide it through my thigh
               when I wear skirts or dresses,
                      so I will wear a dress
               for this occasion as well.

I will wear a dress and a man
      will slide his knife through me
              to create a cavity;
                     a cavity that will make me feel fuller
              with its emptiness;
       a cavity that will fill me
with want for what I now lack.

In autumn a man I do not know
       has been gored by a deer
              he has attempted to kill.

The goal was to field dress
        the deer with his nephew.

If a deer is a buck is it a man?

If so three men I don’t know
       touch death on an October night:
              the deer gets shot,
                      the hunter is gored,
              and the nephew tends to the uncle –

who passes away before paramedics arrive.

The buck isn’t found in the end,
        but I imagine it will return
                to wherever community finds it,
                        or to wherever it can be consumed by land or man.

This is how I will prepare for surgery
         and prepare for departure from myself.

Suspect it will be the morning of the surgical date –

        summer dew on my skin;
                a blade in my hand sharp enough
                        to split the skin but not tear through me.

The guides I’ve read suggest not breaking past the sternum
        if I choose to be mounted in the future:
               I will purchase gloves to reach up
                     and slice my esophagus,
               pull it out through the cavity I’ll create –
        to prepare for a future in which
I can be mounted if I choose it.

There can be merit in retaining the offal of wildlife
        for later consumption should I choose to,
                so I will retain the wild bits of myself.

It is my wish that my surgeon will retain the parts of me
        that he will remove too,
                 and I will bury them in a cyclical fashion:
                         I intend to take my removed testicles to a field in autumn,
                 the night turning everything into amber,
        and obliterating them with a bullet or a few.

Just me, a cavity, and my surgically made cavity.

No one will teach me how to field dress my body for surgery,
       so I will teach myself how to dress,
              as I’ve taught myself so much –

                     as I have taught myself how to have a body,
              and how to transport it into something that I will love.

Aeon Ginsberg (they/them) is an agender transfeminine writer and performer from Baltimore City, MD. They are the winner of the 2019 Noemi Press Poetry Prize for their book, ‘Greyhound’ (2020). Aeon is a member of the Peach Mag editorial team, a taurus, bartender, and a bitch.