Bottom of basement stairs, open-slatted steps where only deep air understands my questions. She sits on my lap; I’m in jean overalls, yellow sauce-stained shirt, and sneakers. She wants me to be a boy, touch beneath her shirt; I do because she says to. There’s no sense in the dark dampness she breathes, kissing me, moving my hand across her rubbery back, able to bend into cartwheels, flips, and hand springs. I fade into her damp air, carry her back with me in dreams: I’m always a boy; mud sucks me into roots of trees falling quickly across the backyard. Limbs bending loudly, lonely, no air for safety. I’m always a boy on the stairs in my dreams, her brown hair between my teeth, and she feels it.