The Tinkerer sits in your room, sleeves rolled up, his face clenched tight as a fist. Since noon he’s been hunkered squint-eyed under a hook light, plying your larynx with a pair of tiny crescent wrenches. He pinned the skin of your throat back butterfly-style to give himself more elbow room, and now he’s fingering the pitch pipe beneath your chin. Your voice lessons didn’t go so well today.?

I would take the things that had no power of their own into my plastic play home. It was there that I pretended to be a woman. I was hungry and bored by the story of the fox and wolf.