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.