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.