Misconceptions of Childhood

　　by Celia Bland

　　 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.