What I Saw When My Father Wrestled Cousin Pedro
The object of my desire is rarely men like my father, uncle, or the other men in my neighborhood. Cousin Pedro is an exception.
Ese that ese ese,
Watching him recede from view, I worry whether I, too, swish my hips like this man; whether I, too, am just a description with no name.
Cousin Pedro flops onto the grass. His chest lunges upward then downward. I want to jump on him like I jump on my father when he returns home from work. Something, something invisible and visible, holds me back.
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I want to believe that I inherited too ways of feeling joy, ways of finding pleasure, ways of being with other queers in raucous and wild ways.
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We remember only a version of the story, and we tell only a fraction of that version. And sometimes, even that will fail us.