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50 HONOR MOORE First Time: 1950 In the back bedroom, laughing when you pull something fawn-colored from your black tight pants, the unzipped chino slit. I keep myself looking at the big belt buckled right at my eyes, feel the hand riffle my hair: You are called Mouse, babysitter trusted Wednesdays with my baby brother. With me. I still see you pull that huge bunch of keys from a pocket, hand them to my brother, hear squeaking out back— Mrs. Fitz’s clothesline—as you unbelt, turn me to you, my face to the open slit. It’s your skin, this thing, head, its tiny slit like the closed eye of a still-forming baby. As you stroke it, it stiffens like a new belt— your face gets almost sick. I want to pull away, but you grip my arm. I see by your black eyes you won’t let go. With your left hand you take my chin. With your other hand you guide it, head reddening, into my slit, my five-year-old mouth. In the tight black quiet of my shut eyes, I hear my baby brother shaking the keys. You lurch, pull at my hair. I don’t breathe, feel buckle, belt, pant. It tastes lemony, musty as a belt after a day of sweat. Mouth hurts, my hands push at your hips. I gag. You let me pull free. I open my eyes, see the strange slits yours are; you don’t look at me. “Babe, babee—” You are moaning, almost crying. The black makes your skin clam-white now, your jewel-black eyes blacker. You buckle up the thick belt. When you take back the keys, my baby brother cries. You extend a shaking hand you make kind. In daylight through a wide slit an open shade leaves, I see her pull, Mrs. Fitz pulling in her rusty, soot-black line. Framed by a slit, her window, her large hands flash, sort belts, dresses, shirts, baby clothes. ...

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