Holy

These stories are mostly lies but You don’t know the half of it They are also mostly true

I’ve spent nights kneeling in front of my mirror on my hands and knees in something like a prayer (although not exactly that) Diagnosing the inches of my body that were still bare

Which is to say that When I was in the eighth grade, a boy A foot taller and with half of a beard although Like me Still a boy Confided in me “It’s a jungle down there” Looking me in the eyes and pointing at his belt with a vigor which I could only assume implied pubic hair so fierce he had trouble containing it And without going into detail and to avoid delving back into middle school vernacular For me, it was not “A jungle down there”

Which is to say that I used to imagine one day I would come to class and begin to feel an itch under my left arm It would start slowly And spread and spread and I would have to run out of class to the bewilderment of my teacher And finally in the bathroom mirror I could lift my shirt to find For the first time Hair Beneath my left arm and perhaps my right Holy

by Sam Aupperlee

Which is to say that My body was mean when I went to public pools Elbows sharp and hands tucked away in a gesture Designed by me To hide what was not there on my chest or under my arms And one day in an act I still consider revolutionary One of the other boys lifted his shirt to swim Revealing arms and a chest as bare as mine skin and nothing else smiling thinking nothing of it a sort of confession (a kindness)

Which is to say that in a moment (fierce) And in a rejection of beauty and of ugliness his body became my body and mine, his A melting together born of the sheer relief that comes from knowing that owning this human body is something like owning a blank canvas A knowledge that we have each entered a confessional or knelt down in front of ourselves

Which is to say That I have learned to delight in the human body and how often we share our colors with each other, how often without knowing it, my body is the body of someone else How often, without knowing it, I am the skin and fingernails and teeth and, yes, hair, of those around me How often this sameness produces something not quite like love but maybe sisterhood