My body was
its own
calamity. I locked
the door and stood
in the mirror to
consider what had
begun to change
against my will. This
was my father’s razor, but
who was my father,
a man? And what
was that? The window looked
on a house, where the oldest son
spent most afternoons beneath
his car, the driveway strewn
with tools, his hands and shirt
smeared with grease. Once,
he called to me from inside
his garage, where I found
him leaning against
the far wall, his jeans
pulled down to his thighs.
Come closer, he said,
and I
but wanted to.