Mama made a batch of blueberry pancakesthat day. I remember the doughstuck to every surface—Mama? What Mama. I had friends.I mean boys. There were three of us—five of us—two—one of them in particular.At that age one can be many.I owned a teal Schwinn, rusted—scooter with motorized carriage—I would ride even if the tires were flat.He knew every back alley and cut.The empty apartment two blocks over,its windows easy to open.Builders never finished the sash.Mama packed me a lunch of ham sandwich—egg salad and onion—peanut butter—potato chips between the bread.I remember thinking sashwas a nice sounding word—The first time I cameit felt like a window breaking.And I was the window.And I was the fist—I kept repeating that one word,silent, in my head. Sash.I might have muttered it once.It might have sounded like yes.It was sunny.I mean cloudy—I don’t remember the weather—It was always hot—Safe bet, it was hot.I might have said that once. It’s hot.You don’t understand context at that age.Context is everything. What the fuckdoes that even mean to a first grader—I didn’t cry about it. He once said tool.As in you don’t know how to use yourself.I do—I went to see Aladdin on Ice! with his parents—My parents took us to the movies—They chaperoned us in—They dropped us at the curb—We walked the same path to schooleach morning. Those back alleys, againWe learned about saturation in science class.How, eventually, a rag dipped in waterjust won’t hold any more.Is this too plain—Am I saying it clearly—What’s too much, too many—I’m afraid of the saturation point, my storylike a rag you can’t use to clean any damn thing.Hard, mostly, to admit it was another kid—Hard? Yes I was hard—I believed in the word stoic. Dead last in second-gradevocabulary but I clung to my few words—I was spelling bee champ. Mouth like a prize.He’d put it on my tongue and say spellmy name—My name, a question in Mama’s mouth:that’s how I knew she knew—Pops caught on first—I had two fathers. One, brand new. One,old, living off bourbon and canned tea.C’mere and rub my shoulder.How’d you get so good at that—Stoic—Sash—I lied about the fists. He never hit me—He hit me once—He slung coins at my ribs. He called mewishing well. I wished a lotuntil I learned what prayer was.I prayed for it to end—I prayed for it to keep going—Hard, mostly, to admit I was seven—they were ten—I’d just turned five—he was fifth grade, held back—I was nine when words becamethe empty apartment I live in today.It’s not like it fucked me up for life—We played a lot of Go Fish. I hid cardsup my sleeve. I liked to win. I think about thatsometimes. You know, winning. What that meantto me. Fish rhymed with wish. Go wish—Why would I come forward?It wasn’t like he was my teacher—parent—neighbor—He was my neighbor. He liked trivia.Do you know what sex means? I spelled it.I thought it meant somethinglike blueberry pancakes—I remember he windowed a girl. I meaninvited. I mean she never came over—She came over once—We went to her place—There was an attic, cold—That’s what I remember mostabout the basement. Wantingand not wanting. Not like it mattered.It was always hot. I’d get chills anyway.Goose pimples. I remember lying on the floor—couch—braided rug—looking at the rafters’ warped beamsand, between them, pinktufts of foam insulation that looked to melike flesh. New flesh. Impossibleto turn away from. Bulbous. Doughing.I mean bulging. You know,wet. Gleaming.Always there in the dark.Until I found myself reaching for it.Just to touch. To know. Surprisedto find it brittle, hollow,not at all warm—If I came, I didn’t have a word for it—We threw footballs on the street.Once, I cracked his windowinto pieces. That’s not a metaphor, exactly—The city was quaint—I hated the city. Big. Old.Nothing to do but rag rocks.I mean kick—It’s not like you could call it rape—He was a kid, I was a kid—I don’t believe in excuses—Pleasure. Now there was a wordwith coins in it. I learned to spell that onelater in life. Nickels and quartersfalling free. Mouth like a prize—The truth is I lovedthe ice rink—movie theater—sitting in the back row—dead last—I haven’t used the word body.How my body liked the thrill.I mean chill. I meanhow edges resolve in the darkuntil the curtain falls,the house lights come up—I mean, you know.