Louise

Louis was 6″2, built like a
middleweight contender,

talked with the lowest,
thickest voice–the guy

you’d never stand next to
at the urinal. He’d occasionally

dress as a woman, calling
himself Louise, with platinum

blonde wig, and the highest
silver heels. Regularly going

to parties like this. Soon he
was always Louise. Coming

to work in a dress. Getting on
the hormone program. Planning

the operation. I’d never seen
Louise happier than the day he

booked the surgery. It had taken
over a year of overtime shifts

to finally save the money for it.
Louise died of a drug overdose

not long after. I will always
remember her at the parties.

Those magnificent silver heels
spilling across the floor like

priceless diamonds: towards a
light they’d never know.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com