as an adult, she tells me
my favorite family recipe
came from their childhood
maid,
shows me the picture,
excitedly. Here we are,
the four of us. Growing
up, dad told us
each peach carries
a flavor and texture
unclear from the skin’s color
alone. To know the truth
about the sweetness or sour,
we ate a slice of each open-faced
peach cake made in celebration
of his birthday. We called
the recipe mommom’s.
We were wrong
about what to name
what we ate. I have since
betrayed expectation, too.
The last time
I kissed a man I thought
about a woman whose breasts
were so close to my own
in bed, who I wanted to hold
but didn’t, my body pressed
against the wall instead
of her back. To be always
facing a wall. To be
always out of touch,
velvet wetting silent
tongues. I know now
everything is
an accumulation: kisses,
kids, cakes, pounds,
lies. Like them I’ve been
dishonest about who I am.
Header photograph © Madeline Mecca.
About the Author
