Jocelyn

is a small, gentle
beacon through clouds
of conservative Catholic
relatives on reunion weekend.

Sunday afternoon
in the barn,
kittens in our arms,
she asks what I want to do
with my future,
and is the first cousin
I don’t lie to.

In the Monday hours
of Sunday night,
we talk across the bedroom,
inching closer until:
“I definitely also
identify as bisexual.”

I collapse
sobbing in her arms,
and she says how brave
I am, how proud she is,
how much she loves me.

God is a closeted bi woman
after three glasses
of white wine.
She sits on the bed
with us, watching my
family finally grant me
something blessed,
proud, holy.

I wear my rainbow
bracelet for days after
my cousin’s long goodbye
hugs perfumed with
vanilla and hope.