Your Father Was a LobsterSheila Squillante
Your father was a lobster. Crack-clawed, cooked. After you about sex in the basement. But I’m thirty-one. Never mind. His roof, rules, rude red legs. Clackety. But we hid our shame beneath your Army blanket. Your mother’s smaller. Not enough meat to warrant attention in those. Clack. Is this about the phone that night? She knew. He knew. We all knew what you were doing at sixteen on the phone with that boy. Click. Is there reference everywhere? The dream-man was blonde, thick-lipped and breathless. He held you to his hips.
Sheila Squillante Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2021, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|