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deepundergroundpoetry.com

Chlorine

Chlorine


My sisterís vagina
Comes alive
Underwater,
In the shallow end
Of our swimming pool.
The waterís not cloudy.
I can see everything
Push out between the Ďví
Of Dad's fingers:
The snub
Beak of clitoris unhooded
At the apex of yawning pink
Set in rubbery outer lips.
Dadís on the second step, my sister on his lap.
Iím wearing my new diving mask.
His other hand
Spreads out like a starfish on my head.
My sister's legs
Outside my father's legs,
The strip of turquoise and white swimsuit
Bunched and pulled aside
Grooves her skin where hip meets thigh.
Iíve got a snorkel
That came with the mask,
But I forget to breathe.
I kick and try to swim away,
But Dad clamps down on the back of my neck.
Iím counting hairs on his middle finger
When a speck of air
Clinging to one crinkly inner lip detaches
And zigzags to the surface.
His fingernails
Are squarish, long, and thick.
Iím wondering why he doesnít cut them,
And why
His fingers donít look orange,
Like heís been eating cheese puffs from a can,
When he begins to stroke.
Iím worried his fingernail will tear
My sister's delicate-looking skin.
The tip of his finger inside,
My sisterís feet
Arch on the bottom step
As she rotates her hips.
I canít tell if his finger making circles
Makes her hips
Move in circles, or vice versa.
His finger slips
Almost out, back in.
Iím breathing
Hard and biting down
Hard on the molded rubber projections
Of the snorkelís mouthpiece.
I taste blood where the flange scrapes my gums.
Mark_Parsons
Written by Mark_Parsons (Mark Parsons)
Published
Author's Note
Copyright--
The poem was originally published on a website, Smalldoggies, in 2012. Smalldoggies later became Nailed. After it the website became Nailed, my poem was take down for particular...
Copyright--
The poem was originally published on a website, Smalldoggies, in 2012. Smalldoggies later became Nailed. After it the website became Nailed, my poem was take down for particular reasons having no relation to the poem.
Later, a nice fellow who succeeded the poetry editor who took my poem put it back up when I asked.
Poems are like dogs, or cats, or houseplants.
They need a home.
I chose the theme of "observational poems," because the poem has some greater truth than my, or my family's, personal truth. In other words, there's some "capital T"-type truth in the poem. Honestly, I don't believe in themes for poems. A poem can only be, like a dog or a cat or a houseplant. It simply is.
Check out smalldoggies.
https://www.nailedmagazine.com/features/poet-mark-pars
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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