Abstract
Every hairdresser I’ve gone to in the last fi ve years has said “try younger men.” Rinse the dead out of your cells with alcohol or fl ame, ink and needles. Th e pain you choose is diff erent. “Why isn’t there more meat on this chicken?” he asked me, squeezing my ribs till they bruised. Every slap was an accident, and he would stand over me, beating himself off and crying. My father spent nights in the bathroom reading Jokes for the John. My older sister drew concentric circles on that door and made me wash it clean and apologize. My body walked me places I had never been, tucked safe in an inside pocket. Be quiet and good and bad things will happen.
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