the whole flower

it’s not easy to grow a beard. I would know —

I spent months counting every hair, counting

every dark tally on my face, marking down

another day closer until I wouldn’t be afraid

in the men’s washroom. we count down the days

until we aren’t afraid anymore, but we have a wall

of tallies now. a full face of beard hair and I still

feel caged and trapped in a stall.

there will always be something — someone, to be afraid of

and I’m tired of shaping the person I am around

the templates that other people give me. the garden growing

inside of me is mine. I planted every seed and watered

every budding leaf. wrapped the clematis vines around sticks

of dried bamboo and dug my fingers into the dirt

just to feel something.

I want to sink my roots into the ground

so that the seed pods that drop down bloom

into a trans kid less afraid than I am. I plant myself

in every iris bulb, into wet soil, so that when their soft petals

unfurl with my name etched in them, you know I was here

and will bloom year after year.

I will hold the hands of other men like me

and it will feel like something sacred, like pressed

petals between the pages of a story we are still writing.

“Love as I love my own life“ Achilles said to Patroclus.

my lover leaves roses in a jar in front our house l

abeled ’free’ because that garden is a little bit of

him and me.

these are the days I want to spend counting,

the days where my skin feels like mine

and the sun is shining because I woke up today.

I want to cover my walls in tallies marking every

moment I fell in love and had a nap and ate meals

made with friends. I want to cover my walls

in tallies until they are darker and fuller and

thicker than the beard on my chin.

the only thing outnumbering them is the long life

of lovers and friends and more than friends

and more than lovers stretching out before me

in a history I still have yet to live. and maybe

I will always be afraid in the men’s bathroom,

but they cannot take away that garden growing

inside of me. they can’t take away that the next

time you see an iris in full bloom you’ll remember

the pressed petals between pages with my name on

them.

your garden is growing too and there’s nothing to do except

cup the whole flower in your hands and read every name written

on those petals. make a tally mark on the wall

every time you read yours and soon it will be covered.

Emmett MacMillen (they/them) is a queer, trans nonbinary writer, performer, and producer living in Victoria, B.C.