Her vulva is innocent not shy The skin arcs between her small thighs soft, hairless, cleaved like the peach, two lines of slow curve vanishing in her hips, in her belly, in her — we cannot call them — breasts. She will ask nothing of her vulva for years. She will call it her thing and cover it daily. She will wash it in warm water, pinching it, wiping it will rub the soap there until it is clean. Somewhere else now, he is being changed, his penis pointing to the sky and peeing with great force, urine spraying his mother’s hands and his mother’s pant legs, drenching the huge red sac of his newborn scrotum. He will come inside her one day, his hands gripping her shoulder blades both glad there is no way back. And when he pulls out of her, when he draws his stream of white syllables across these thighs, she will sing some song with the shapes of his eyes and mouth and sing that song through the difficult corridors of her sleep.