It’s hard to come from a place
where you can feel whole
and land somewhere
that expects you to be halved.
The division is sharper
when it’s on soil
you’re the first to touch in generations—
soil where you walk with ease,
yet your body knows
to tread lightly.

The spring tide pools,
the backgammon pieces slapping down—
it wasn’t until I saw a man
and his balls
that I figured out
these are for boys,
these are for men.

Yet here,
both parts of me are seen—
in Russian,
in Armenian.

How do I claim a land
that was taken from me,
but tries to take more?

My nose, my height,
find themselves in strangers,
but still, gender shadows
leave me unseen
and fragmented.

It’s strange to think this
in a crumbling Soviet amusement park,
while teens make out,
their limbs mixing new futures.

My partner and I always argue—
can you separate art from artist?
Men always seem to get that chance.
They’re allowed to be monsters
and still adored.

Allowed to wade through spring tide pools,
while the sun burns in Yerevan.