by Celia Bland

by Celia Bland
     My father was a sidewise Jack，
     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 sheared unripe heads from
     luscious tips.
     The leaves caused a rash.
     My mouth's toes， St. Theresa，
     grind with your hips
     when you close your eyes. Sex is
     sacred， you say.
     Leaving me， to prove it.