Finding a stack of Playboys beneath his bed,

my mother and aunt stop crying and laugh,

​

picturing my grandfather: nineties and toothless,

admiring glossy bodies. I hover nearby,

​

uncomfortable because I cannot see myself

in these naked women, teardrop breasts with areolas,

​

red caps you could unscrew, watch the milk

pour out. I am eleven. Their legs are open.

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Close them, said my brother when he saw me

sitting knees-apart at school. I realized there were rules

​

for girls, so I made myself small and tried to like

what I should—dolls and stickers, stamps

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and curling irons—worrying when my chest showed

no ambition toward fullness and I could still run

​

as fast as the boys. How did they do it? Other girls

knew their roles by heart. In magazines, women

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suck their teeth and dare men to come close. Afraid,

I look past them at what's left of my grandfather:

​

red telescope, collection of classics. I lift Darwin's

Descent of Man, slide a pink finger down its old story.