Turn the page when she thought we’d seen enough.

This went on for weeks one summer, a few of us

meeting at the canyon rim at noon, the glossy

magazine fluttering at the tips of our fingers.

Brenda led the way down, and the others

stumbled after blindly, Martin

always with his little brother

hanging off the pocket of his jeans, a blue

pacifier stuck like candy in his mouth.

Every time he yawned, the wet nipple

fell out into the dirt, and Martin, the good brother,

would pick it up, dust it with the underside

of his shirt, then slip it into his own mouth

and suck it clean. And when the turning

of the pages began, ceremoniously, exposing

thigh after thigh, breast after beautiful,

terrible breast, Martin leaned to one side,

and slid the soft palm of his hand

over his baby brother’s eyes.

Matinee

Twelve years old, two silver quarters singing

in the crease of my palm, the marquee

three streets up, the blue neon letters

washed out to the same color as the sky.

What made me turn my head sideways, toward

the quiet house where he stood naked

between the trees, trembling in the shade

of a white-washed duplex, a stranger

looking back at me, holding onto himself

in the sparse light, his eyes opening

and closing, opening and closing.

Why didn’t I believe what I saw?

I had seen a man naked before.

I had seen my father undressed, his long white

thighs and the dark scratchy patch between them.

I had seen this, over and over, the pale worm

that grew and bruised up into the air, its

smelly milk, its tiring and slow failing.

I knew what was real and what wasn’t.

I knew day from night. And I knew about men,

what they hid beneath their clothes,

so why was I crying? Why was I surprised

to see him there, stroking himself

between the trees? And why was I running?

What was I afraid of? I was twelve. I knew

everything. And it was broad daylight,

wasn’t it? That was the sun, wasn’t it,

pinned to the sky? I had two quarters in my hand,

I could feel them, the ridges along each rim,

the raised faces pressed into my palm.

There were bright cars and sidewalks

and pale green lawns and the movie theater

a single block away, its glittering brick walls

and mirrored doors. I could see it.

I could be there in another minute

if I could only get across the street,

if I could only keep running. And I could see

the poster in its glassed case. I could read

the names of the actors and the looks

on their faces. One of them was holding

a handful of roses, I remember how they looked —

so red and so real and so close I thought

I could touch them, I was so sure I could