Dear Ozma,

I can’t tell you about the humiliation fantasies: about me as bonus-hole boy beneath two gleaming femmes—strap-on DP and all the rest—my tinsides, my tinsides. I want to come on someone’s face for real just once. I want hard not be a euphemism for wet & flooding, ohh, I want someone to miss what’s lacking, then need me because of it. You’re such a good boy when you take it, but I have to, what other choice is there for a __ like me.

I’m not strange & enchanted, Ozma, I’m perpetual limp dick. Swan boy with flabby wings, jam scum rimming a drugstore jar.


Dorothy Appear to Me

Scratch my face with your nails while I hold girls who mistake just-haunted for stoicism. I crush my own clover, lick the cream from oreos, I fuck as if I’ll never make them feel special enough. Still you take me to The Land of Ev, still the wheelers circle us without a gloss of protection.

Home home home we both whisper in our sleep. Home home I’m cast periwinkle, spray-on silver, confetti-cake red. Home Home the bar where I’m drowning my brain, but nothing I say is coming through. Poppies grasp me from the beer glass, a gingham ribbon ties itself around my back. Will you be my wise counsel, Dorothy? Say boy, land-ho. Say we’ve crossed our deadly desert. True forms wait only on a wish.



Wren Hanks is a trans writer from Texas and the author of Prophet Fever (Hyacinth Girl Press) and Ghost Skin (Porkbelly Press). A 2016 Lambda Emerging Writers Fellow, his recent work appears in Best New Poets 2016, Gigantic Sequins, Jellyfish Magazine, The Wanderer, and elsewhere. His third chapbook, gar child, is forthcoming from Tree Light Books in 2017. He currently lives in Brooklyn and tweets @suitofscales.