Misconceptions of Childhood

    My father was a sidewise Jack²，

    always in profile， a hand on his rod.

    His pack was a Destroyer， said my mother，

    where he played ping-pong on

    the deck， two fingers flat on his spade.

    I saw his photo： a big-bellied dick

    in a tailor-made sailor suit.

    "Bye-Bye！" he waved， and out I

    sprang， strong enough

    to shove all the drawers shut.

    My teeth took root. White

    stalagmites， their stems sunk inward

    and rotted. Biting strawberries，

    they sheared³ unripe⁴ heads from

    luscious⁵ tips.

    The leaves caused a rash.

    My mouth's toes， St. Theresa，

    grind with your hips⁶

    when you close your eyes. Sex is

    sacred， you say.

    Leaving me， to prove it.