when i was in two bodies, halved

Peter Scalpello

                                             insisting on life i dressed
                                            myselves up, like a wound

                 as a bigger me, older & more engendered
                                                than i am even now
                                 though, then, i of course
                                      defied age & sex

my father’s masculine was anger
       i first gauged as urges indulged

                                      to etch, as caveperson
                                                   the letter   S   with
                               a (nondescript) wrench, made up
                                               of roughened integers so

                        that erasure shaped our liminal space
                        & the inside of his testicles read  sis

                                                                let’s say the impulse
                                                                     to deface already had
                                                                infinite rotational symmetry
                                                                   it seems to surface in me today

                         screaming on regents street
                 at the injustices of the world

                                                                         my mother’s feminine was doubt
                                                                       i sensed in her primary colours
                                                                & her venus, which is the name
                                                       of a razor i took to both eyebrows

                though barely there & now
                     vanished, replaced them with

                                                                         love hearts; sky, sun, wine
                                                          but the security, i could literally inhale
                                              it! i was untarnished & fine
                                             & when i looked back up i was already

                  here
                                                                         when i was in two people, doubled

     everything served
                                                                                              disappeared down
  my throat until the suburbs
                                                                  brought it all back up again

           with seven pints of revelation
                                                        to ingest the suede shoes

                                & the unwell man you see all the time
                                                                                                              is you
                                          both cells unmarried & yet
                                                                                         a replication, as healing

                                       means to be repeatedly broken over again
                                                                        still, when fingertips were viscous

                    & not-yet yellowed, the matter of us
                                                                                   tasted so gorgeous—
       are you coming with me, or just
                                                                            merely going


   begin again
                                                                                                    when i was in two


The Science

The uncertainty of conception and inherited traits, the miracle of identity and re-imagining of memory stored in the brain and body.


The Poet

Peter Scalpello is a queer poet and sexual health therapist from Glasgow, currently living in London. His work has been published internationally. His debut pamphlets will be published in March 2021 by Broken Sleep Books. Tweets @p_scalpello.


Next poem: Will it rain tomorrow? by Angélica Nardo Caseri