I owe you an explanation. br My first memory isn’t your own br of an empty box. My babyhood cabinets held br a countlessness of cakes, my backyard br rotted into apple glut, windfalls of br money-tree, mouthfuls of fib. br br At puberty I liked the locks, br I was the one who made them fast. br The yelling in our hallways was about br lost money, or lost love, but not br lost life. Or so I see it now: br in those days I romanticized br a risk (I thought I’d die br in the alcoholic automobile, die br at the hands of nerveless dentistry). Small hearts br were printed in the checkbook; when my parents called me br dear, they meant expensive. br br Where were you in all that time? Out looking for br your father’s body? Making for your mother’s room? br I got my A’s in English, civics, br sweetness and light; you got black eyes, and F’s, br and nowhere fast. By 1967 when we met br (if you could call it making an acquaintance, br rape) I was a mal-adjusted gush, a sucker for br placebos. Walking home from Central Square, I came to have br the good girl’s petty dread: the woman br br to whose yard you dragged me might br detect us, and be furious. More than anything else br I wanted no one mad at me. (Propriety, br or was it property, I thought br to guard: myself I gave away.) br br And as for you, you had the shakes, br were barely seventeen yourself, too raw br to get it up (I said don’t be afraid, br afraid of what might happen if you failed). br And afterwards, in one of those moments br it’s hard to tell (funny from fatal) you did br a terrible civility: you told me br br thanks. I’ll never forget br that moment all my life. br It wasn’t until then, as you br were sheathing it to run, br br I saw the knife.