12.09.2021

he would sway his body with moves of gracefulness

Somehow I never stopped to notice 
that my father liked to dress as a woman. 
He had his sign language about women 
talking too much, and being stupid, 
but whenever there was a costume party 
he would dress like us, the tennis balls 
for breasts—balls for breasts—the long 
blond wig, the lipstick, he would sway 
his body with moves of gracefulness 
as if one being could be the whole 
universe, its ends curving back to come 
up from behind it. Six feet, and maybe 
one-eighty, one-ninety, he had the shapely 
legs of a male Grable—in a short 
skirt, he leaned against a bookcase pillar 
nursing his fifth drink, gazing 
around from inside his mascara purdah 
with those salty eyes. The woman from next door 
had a tail and ears, she was covered in Reynolds Wrap, 
she was Kitty Foyle, and my mother was in 
a tiny tuxedo, but he always won 
the prize. Those nights, he had a look of daring, 
a look of triumph, of having stolen 
back. And as far as I knew, he never threw 
up, as a woman, or passed out, or made 
those signals of scorn with his hands, just leaned, 
voluptuous, at ease, deeply 
present, as if sensing his full potential, crossing 
over into himself, and back, 
over, and back. 
 

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