HER PARENTS’ BED
Every time they’re gone, we’re in, then I’m in, then she says something dirty. About me. Or her. Or her titties. That’s the only place she ever uses the word titties, which is so little girl. And I don’t mind that, usually. In fact, it’s often a goal. But when I see her little girl picture on the bedroom wall, with her little girl shirt covering her little girl titties, I feel weird and dirty and harder than ever and then I don’t know what I think of myself. Mostly I try not to think, I just smack her when she asks and watch my handprint fade, or try to balance on the headboard when we stand and she shows me she can grab her ankles. Both of them. At once. And is it my fault there’s a picture of her mother on the dresser, just above my hand that’s riding on her shoulder?
Up the Down Way