When I say “blood memory,” I mean anything that is old and in the world that you might remember somewhere from one of your past lives. I think of queerness as a kind of blood running through my body so that I might know…If I’m in those spaces, there’s also a memory there because of this thing that is of me, or that I am of. I don’t know which came first—the gay, or his gayness? Blood memory is a far-reaching thing. There’s all different types of blood.
I met her in early January on a sidewalk in Missoula, Montana. It was only nine but it felt past midnight, the dark and cold thrumming along my skin, the stars dagger points suspended in the frozen air. A puff of air came from her mouth as she said her name and extended her mittened hand. I offered my own name puff and reached back. The snow crunched beneath our boots as we parted ways, hurrying to our vehicles.