The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: We Had Mansions by Mandy Shunnarah

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jesus was trans

               for Shelby

To an inquisitive child, Baptists might reluctantly admit
              God is neither man nor woman,
                           but I know Jesus is trans.
She told me. Picked the wig out himself & everything.

I remember this when Shelby says she’s nobody’s daughter.
              There’s no good word for an orphan
                           like her & I’m no parent, but, girl,
we raised ourselves. So I tell her: You’re your own daughter.

You are the woman that assigned male kid needed.
              Time isn’t linear—you mothered & fathered & fucked
                           yourself into being. You sacrificed your skin
to an undeserving world through bodily trans-

formation & was persecuted for it. What could be more holy
              than that? Time loops in on itself & I see you
                             in a sundress, beribboned straw hat,
& garden gloves, planting pink, blue & white rows of roses.

Decades from now, you’ll look at your photos lining your hall:
               hair lengthening, skin glowing supple
                            with care, eyes brightening with your signature
shadow. At the last frame on the wall, a mirror, & you’ll stop to say,

I’m so proud of all you’ve been & all you’ve become.
              In another time, when you return
                           —anticipated, rapturous, primed for worship—
I hope you’ll say instead: I’m no one’s son.

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