by Stacey Z. Lawrence  He is eleven, almost a manwhen the belt’s buckle catchesunder his skin.As usual hegrips the kitchen sinkstares at the faucet dripas she whips.He never cries, but this timebloody puddles stainhis white socks, the canvasof his Converse,gore trickles down his leg.She places it on the counter,bits of his ass impaledupon sharp metal…