We were on a sofa bed in my aunt’s house. The sheets were my mother’s, pale and green. We were young again but of indistinguishable age: I don’t know 16, 17—It wasn’t now, it wasn’t then, time falls/fell apart the way it does in dreams…I could see a baby blue Ford Pinto on cinderblocks through the window. We were naked—I had the chicken pocks. I was scared. He put his hand on my breast and the scabs shook off and the blood poured out, disappearing without staining the sheets and I giggled, then laughed hysterically and the blood just flowed…He will be thirty two in April and he drives an Audi or a Mercedes or a BMW. The blue Pinto was sent to the junkyard twenty years ago and the cinderblocks sit in a pile by the garage.
