I was raised in a house of femininity, I say. No, feminine energy.
Maternal energy? I want to be swung along by two female hands
with my feet just skimming the sidewalk. Rewind, reverse,
swing me back. The muscles behind their arms buckle
slightly in memory fabric – weighted down by the substance
of my sharp blonde hair, I think. It was a solid bowl cut.
Which one was more like the father? People ask me all the time, smiling.
Perhaps they attempt to include me in contours of family this way.
Offer me a father mask to place over the beautiful woman shape of Audrey.
Audrey likes sports, I say.They smile and nod.
They smile wider, they get it. Oh yeah.

Is it fair to attack breasts when my family is defined by women?
That seems unfair. That seems too close to the root of our warmth.
Would the assembly of our family be different if she chose to let go
of her breasts immediately? I dreamt once that a tsunami was hitting
our house, but it swelled up to just below where our steps began.
Audrey loved that garden as much as she loved sports.
I almost learned how to catch the football running
         With arms open for it to come sailing into arms from behind small back
But I continued to stumble. I almost learned. Women loving women,
mother to mother to sister to sister to dog. He never grew up with facial hair
so when a man comes to the house all he wants to do
is lick his chin in search of beard. I am fascinated
by the physicality of a man shaving. A girl asked me on the beach once
if I was going to grow up to become a lesbian, and I said,
I don’t know! I traced a heart into the sand.
[literal] I want to be in love in a home
with somebody. Little girl looks at me and says,
I bet you will be a lesbian.