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18 Dream of My Cousin’s Wedding We walk down the aisle together, he and I, holding hands, shaking with held-in giggles: too serious at thirteen, I am the man atop the wedding cake come alive with blown-out Afro and clip-on tie beside a cloud of gauze and lace, my cousin, billowing, veil hiding the thin hairs of his first mustache. No one is surprised. All seem comfortable with our mocking, pray this Tom Thumb dress-up and pretend will purge us of the thing they fear, both of us too quiet, different, strange—they have suspicions, other names lying in wait to hang on our thin shoulders if we do not reform, repent, “grow out of it.” High on Communion wine transformed into grape juice, we race to fly out of this church, those clothes, that small town, into cities, adulthood, our true names. Seal our vows of escape with a stolen kiss. ...

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