– after Rita Dove Morning. I look at my fuzzy chest in the bathroom mirror. What are these hard disks, like quarters, under my nipples? I’m a boy; am I growing breasts? I can hear the girls in my class giggling. Last evening during homework, my father called me to the living room, and back at my desk, I couldn’t remember what he’d said, but I realized he had not yelled at me like the day before and the day before that and . . . The letters in the book swam like fish avoiding a bigger ...
