When my father was a boy, he flew            on two wheels and roar, an Icarus with a collar bone like a canary and smooth tan skin. The seat must            have rumbled between his thighs, the motor’s purr against his scrotum a more dense and thorny pleasure            even than slipping forward and back on the textured bathtub floor until the water sloshed or pressing again            into the deflated couch cushions. Nothing like my own early mornings in chatrooms, tabs switched from bright            blue games at our kitchen desktop to what would you do for me and are you hard now from strangers.            Sometimes I was a hard man, though soft was not the female term, I learned, but never guessed wet would be correct.            Woman was easier, say yes and be naked in my XXL t-shirt dress until my father ambled in to fry bacon. I’d close the browser            and butter the toast. Twelve years old, my father crested a hill and shot into the sky, his brother met him there, a mash of flesh            and metal that left his jaw a tattered wing after a spray of shot: feathers of muscle and skin across his chin            and the nose a drooping neck and closed gray eyelid. Being called a woman for the first time is a memorable thing,            and so my father still recalls the smack of laughter from down the stairs when he shouted My face, my goddamned face!            into the oval mirror, light from a bare bulb he flicked dark quick as a stitch.

DORSEY CRAFT holds an MFA from McNeese State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, The Massachusetts Review, Mid-American Review, Ninth Letter, Notre Dame Review, Rhino Poetry and elsewhere. She is currently a Ph.D student in poetry at Florida State University and the Assistant Poetry Editor of The Southeast Review.