In the beginning, there was a boywho touched me as he shouldn’t have.His hands around my ankles—claustrophobic—a plot of cattails on the water’s black silt.We all have a story like this,innocent in its setting, nefarioushow it stays spurred into our bonesas we grow.I think I knew I was a boywhen the boy touched me.I know this boy is nowa violent manwith a large collection of semi-automatic rifles. Some thingsare so absolute. The pointat which rain becomes snow. The wayfruit eventually spoilseven under unblemished skin.If I make a metaphor of my body,it’s a desert. One part longing,one part need, the rest withstanding. Of courseI would prefer to be thirstyfor nothing. I’d rather do so muchthan be touched in this angry dark.Violent men want me to be a violent man.Or they want me dead.What a privilege to have an option.