I remember when my dad started sleeping with other women.

I’d bump into them in the hallway at night

when I tiptoed down to fetch apple juice.

Sometimes they would smile and pinch my cheeks.

Others would slink into the walls, skirts hitched.

There would be ten or twelve on the go: lollipop

ladies, cashiers, accountants, police, two politicians,

a priest. They would bang on the bathroom door

if I lingered too long in the john. When I flushed,

another would appear. It got to where I couldn’t breathe

for his extramarital lovers. I’d sneeze, blink, and

surprise! There goes one more! Back then, my dad and I

didn’t see eye to eye—or any bodily part to another.

To reach him, I’d holler at the nearest one to hand. Listen,

you can still hear my words pass along the chain, ear to ear.

Structure

14 lines · 7 stanzas