Poetry By Haras Shirley

r. nial bradshaw CC




Remember Our Trip to the Circus?

Dear Dad,

I waited for your evening phone call all year long,
but it never came. 
Your punch dial, and my answer on the third ring.

Do you remember the static in the air surrounding me when you handed me my Happy Meal,
discount tickets to the circus just inside?
My straw straight locks stood on end, pressed against primary color balloons. 
I thought the bunches would burst, but just stuck to them instead. 

Your authority snaps like the crack of a lion tamer’s whip after every booth we pass.
No to the liquid gold popcorn,
No to the footlong hotdogs with diamond dollops of ketchup.
You put me on the tightrope path and with stilt walker prowess,
I still manage to bank fool’s gold with a cotton candy grin.

Your faux leather wallet battered as you distributed bills to those vendors like Coinstar. 
A treasure trove of toys secured in my arms and a soda to fill the tank of my stomach. 
The lights flashed,
and I thought I would be the one to explode
out of a cannon if we didn’t find our hard to see seats.

The elephant graced the room in her decorated headdress with crushing steps.
The master dominating the ring announced, “Buy a box of Cracker Jacks, win an elephant ride. We have ONE and ONLY ONE golden ticket! Good luck!”

I watched you contemplate how to avoid my gaze when— Crack, 
my head whipped in your direction.
You gave into my pout lips and pleading eyes.
I was already halfway to the concession area with your last crisp bill. 

Your sigh was inaudible to me then,
I didn’t understand you couldn’t bet against the house or double 
down with a food stamp card. 

I swear you called me Charlie Bucket when we broke open the box,
glint of gold had us hugging and cheering
as a “thank you!” sprinted from my mouth faster than my tattered trainers could carry me.

The elephant’s thick leather grooves guided my hands,
gently settled behind her ears.
I rose to new heights, fear of a trampled death, 
but you beamed as I passed.
Cheering my name with pride,
you waved like I was king of our town. 

Remember our victory lap?
Triumphantly holding me on your shoulders and making way to our secondhand car.
I clung tightly to your elephant ears and jaw,
feet tucked in the crook of your armpits.
I rested my chin atop your head,
already reminiscing about the elephant
and how she’d remember for the both of us.

In memory of my father
11/05/1961-01/31/2021





​Death Certificate without a Signature


Two days post operation 
I press my face against the toothpaste flecked glass. 
I hold my whole 182lbs by my fingertips, 
a perimeter of sweat forms my silhouette
as steam distends the room, a mask of uncertainty.
The veins in my hands interrupt the conversation of my skin
as the punch of my deadname strikes my phantom breasts.
I stare dead into pre-transition’s past
She’s undressed— wild. 
I rub my eyes of any possibility of sleep.
She’s gone, a trick of the light.

Testosterone lowers my eye sweat coffin into the ground, lays it to rest.
Last handful of packed earth sends grief ringing the bell tied to its wrist at the surface of the soil.
Tears cascade, uncaught, as I expel her estrogen from every gland in my body to avoid my own funeral.
She hid me in her solace,
but now I cannot even speak of her for fear the masquerade wears off.

Each step in my remission kills her.
I started with her hair,
every snip of the scissor and razor slash cutting away the sickness.
I emerge from the chair healthy and new. 
Smiling, I tipped the barber the bill.
They’ve no clue they helped me cover up homicide for thirty-six U.S. dollars. 

Each snip and cut were never enough— I could always go shorter.
Dysphoria echoed in my mind with every word escaping my thin lips, until month number three. 
The deep hum of my voice now hushes the cries of her soprano to eternal sleep,
nine months on hormones narrows my hips and chisels me out of her flesh.
My body, again adolescent.

Chill creeps into the fog’s warmth,
the steam static background noise distracts from the trill in my ears
as I look into the face of every man we’ve ever hated.
My face is becoming. Yes, becoming. 
Less safe, less trustworthy for those who don’t know me. 

Now when I share who I am, I am inclined to reveal that I murdered you,
for fear omission of my transition will leave me surrounded solely by my thoughts. 
The fear of being ostracized as I explain her certification of death will never receive a signature.
Court ordered, same day, I choke on my freshly printed birth certificate.





A Love Letter to Myself


It’s you! Oh, how it’s always been you.
The unashamed tear stained cheeks,
always wearing masculinity t-shirts with heart shaped sleeves,
the man with the over the moon cheese grin.
It’s always been you.

The way you assert yourself to defend what you believe,
and the way you love hearing yourself speak your own opinions
as if they were truth--
if only I could press my lips to yours to shut you up.
It’s always been you.

I watch the way you over-exert yourself 
day to day, just to barely get by--
how you put all others before yourself.
I will be the one to wrap you in the wealth of love you deserve.
It’s always been you.

I promise I will undo the pain,
remove the hurled brick insults,
gently etch worthiness into your skin--
the only blemishes left to cling to your naked body
as you shower to start a new day.
It’s always been you.

How I hope you’ll continue to walk with me,
reminisce down forked paths of our demise--
how we chose left or right
and still ended up here anyway.
It’s always been you.

I promise you we will move on from a past that’s always haunted our present. 
Because it’s you. It’s always been you.




Haras Shirley is a transgender man and poet from the midwest. He previously published with Wingless Dreamer Lit. He has written a children's book and two poetry manuscripts. When he isn't pursuing his writing goals he is an advocate for the transgender community and currently holds the title of Mr. Trans Texas. He will compete at the national pageant to become the next Mr. Trans USA. Haras resides in Indianapolis, In with his German Shepherd, Tonks, and two cats, Sev and Dobby.
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