Potlatch

She is a woman now, they all said, so I did as I pleased. I wrapped my legs tight around my sixteenth birthday, and from the wear in my panties a scandalous potlatch was born. Simple at first, I always chafed against halos. Then as a path, I stuff my white coat with what passes for meat in Heaven, but under its down I still feel their hands on my back. I try to push them off, but only pull back their gloves. I hold them to my nose. To the ladylike weeping that follows. I know they will lay their coats over my tears before me, and walk me down the cold cement steps.