The summers swole me: knuckles first, then wrists right down to the elbows.
My family there — richer, unknown to me, and queerly religious. Megachurch
parishioners. Gossips. Voices cantering through the dark with emphatic lilt.
Porch light interrupted only by the salt-sweet of the bread factory and water
bugs churning out steady as if made by the trees. One aunt kind, the other
queer. Religious. House empty of all but lizards and an open bible. Diet all
raw. In long skirts and sleeves in heat that swole me. They told me, as all did,
that there was nothing wrong. That I could stand to lose a little weight. Put
me on a diet. Set me to walking around The Oglethorpe Mall in a little suit.
Took me to church for the queerness. Left me to wait out a funeral. Invited
me to no funerals, despite how commonly I stayed. Took me out to Vidalia,
teased onions sweet as apples. Sat me at the buffet, but scolded every option.

Slim and swollen, as I packed to leave we explored a tiny tea house, my bracelets
cut into my forearms. A peach baked in filo, honeyed, filled with strawberries.
A pleasure syrupped over months of restriction. An elegance. A half apology.