Misconceptions of Childhood

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.