WHAT MY FATHER TOLD ME

by Dorianne Laux

Always I have done what was asked.

Melmac dishes stacked on rag towels.

The slack of a vacuum cleaner cord

wound around my hand. Laundry

hung on a line.

There is always much to do and I do it.

The iron resting in its frame, hot

in the shallow pan of summer

as the basins of his hands push

aside the book I am reading.

I do as I am told, hold his penis

like the garden hose, in the bedroom,

in that bathroom, over the toilet

or my bare stomach.

I do the chores, pull weeds out back,

finger stink-bug husks, snail carcasses,

pile dead grass in black bags. At night

his feet are safe on their pads, light

on the wall-to-wall as he takes

the hallway to my room.

His voice, the hiss of lawn sprinklers,

the wet hush of sweat in his hollows,

the mucus still damp

in the corners of my eyes as I wake.

Summer ends. Schoolwork doesn’t suit me.

My fingers unaccustomed to the slimness

of a pen, the delicate touch it takes

to uncoil the mind.

History. A dateline pinned to the wall.

Beneath each president’s face, a quotation.

Pictures of buffalo and wheatfields,

a wagon train circled for the night,

my hand raised to ask a question,

Where did the children sleep?

Back to: Dorianne Laux interview