What I remember best, thirty years later, is that all at once I was unfractured, breathing in five dimensions, as if my skin were pulled by the waxing moon across the reckless continents. Your hand rose along pale and feckless ribs, your fingers cool on me. Finally, I understood all the born-again Jesus women with their starched lace collars and their close-pruned hair and most of all their holy, throaty singing. My purple-and-black flannel nightshirt and your nicotine-stained thumb, Doublemint on your breath, and whiskey were the only anchors in the heady rush and drift of things.
Elise Scott is a queer, disabled, nonbinary writer/mom, a backwoods bootlegger, and an artisanal vegan cheese-maker. Find their published/forthcoming works or come say “hi!” at elise-scott.com X: @buttonjar1