I

On graduation day dozens of ducklings die in the fountain. It’s one of the last times you wear a dress and your lover wipes the tears from your girl face as you look at the ducklings floating by. This year they put some sort of chemical in the water that makes the ducklings choke on their own tongues, their precious little wings rigid in death as they bob to the current. Your lover holds you with their hair tucked back and your vintage sweater tight across their tits. The way you like. Someone tells you to stop crying, it’s graduation day.

II

You leave your heart in San Francisco. It’s one of the last times you wear a skirt and your lover sleeps next to you in the golden patch of the park. You read them your dyke stories out loud and kiss their coffee-stained lips on every corner. You take a day trip to the Glass Beach and choose stones for your wedding rings. There’s a picture of you at queer prom, in the photo booth, faces alight with total bliss. On the way home you fly through the Denver airport and tell them you left your heart in San Francisco. Turns out there is a hole in your pocket and all of the stones from the Glass Beach fall out.

III

You realize they never returned the dead duckling day sweater years after they leave. No matter, you’re not a girl anymore. You don’t wear a dress or a skirt. Your pockets are empty.