Today I’m me. At least, I think I am.
I’m him, anyway, not her.
I never feel quite as comfortable,
quite as – at home – as her. Lee
tells me that the same is true of her.

Once when I was her and she was me –
Jo – and we made love we switched mid-orgasm
(we’re only kids, but he’s – I’m – pretty good):
that must say, must show, something. Mum, though,
is happier with me as Lee –
she doesn’t know, of course, but sometimes
she senses something, almost guesses; you can tell.

Lee doesn’t make a very good girl.
I mean Jo doesn’t – he doesn’t. A bit too
like Xena – beautiful, but strong – and bossy –
whereas I – who am sure I was born the boy –
make a lovely girl. Sweet. They never say
sweet when Lee – Jo – is in her body.

She says it isn’t true, we used to swap
even in the womb. I don’t remember.
But nor does she. And I don’t care.
What worries me is what will happen later
when we grow up, get married,
each have our own home?

When Jo is Lee she has an on-off boyfriend,
George (I found him kissing me, once.
If I ever find him fucking me … )
and when I’m Jo I have a girlfriend, Sally –  
so does Lee, when she is me,
and from what he says, she likes him better,
has more fun, with him than me.

What would happen if I killed him?
I’m pretty sure I’d wake up – no, be – dead.
Because I am him. He is me. Really.

We switched once just before a football match.
We lost of course, his team. He blamed me.
She was watching from the stands. I would rather
play football in the rain and mud than share
a soggy hotdog and a dribbled-in coke with George.

You see, I’ve started meditating. Visualising.
I find I can control the switches now
to some extent. She can’t. Should I tell her?
Tell him? “Help you with the cooking?
Yes, of course, Mum. What’s that?
Sometimes I’m so nice, sometimes not so?
No one’s perfect, Mum. Not even Lee.
Trust me. I know.”

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