As the flag is folded 
(uncovering your coffin) 
the red is tucked away 
--hidden from memory. 

The widow wears black 
and the men salute, 

but I am torn 
by this act of gendered 
remembrance. 

When I was young 
I wore the skirt 
and tucked my long hair 
into bobby pins 
to meet your expectations. 

(GI Jane was a fantasy.) 

Today I wear the skin 
of the man I've become. 

(This ceremony will never be mine.) 

I learned to love a life 
of inside out 
and upside down 

where transgressions 
make sense 

and I no longer fall 
In line. 

The bugle sounds taps 
and 7 guns 
3 times 
sound silence 

over the field that you now call home. 

I watch from afar 

knowing that your vision of me and 
this man I am 
could never stand side by side 

on a day like this. 

Once, your children called me 
(Aunty) 

but today they don't recognize me 
with my 
buzz cut 
mustache 
and tattoos. 

The man I am 
challenged 
the man you always were. 

In schools everywhere 
the students stand 
in boy lines 
and girl lines 
waiting to hear 
me tell my story. 

(I wonder if the teachers see 
the irony.) 

Somewhere 
I remembered in 
one of those lines 
I found myself 

while you stood next to me 
asking 
who wore the pants 
in my family. 

(I know that pants 
can never make 
the man.) 

As the sun sets 
over your newly covered 
grave 

I bow my head 
and promise you 
that I won't 
hide the red.

---

Brandon L. Beck, PhD, is a queer, trans man from San Marcos, Texas. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing in 2009 from Texas State University and his PhD in Community Education in 2014. Dr. Beck, through poetry and education, works to improve the awareness of and availability for trans rights. His website is www.transteacher.com.