Poet: Mark Parsons, Japan
Small Doggies Single Poem Feature #3: Mark Parsons, Japan
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Chlorine
My sister’s vagina comes alive
underwater, in the shallow end of our pool.
The water’s not cloudy
and I can see everything
push out between Dad’s meaty fingers:
The curved beak of clitoris
unhooded at the apex of yawning skin
set between rubbery outer lips.
Dad’s on the second of three steps
leading into the pool
with my sister on his lap.
I’m wearing my new swim mask.
Dad’s got his other hand on top of my head.
My sister’s legs outside my father’s legs,
the strip of turquoise and white
patterned swimsuit bunched to one side
grooves her skin where hip meets thigh.
I’ve got the snorkel that came with the mask,
but I forget to breathe.
When I kick and try to swim away,
Dad clamps down on the back of my neck.
I’m counting the hairs on his middle finger
When a speck of air
Clinging to one crinkled inner lip detaches
And zigzags up to the surface.
Dad’s fingernails are squarish, long, and thick-looking.
I’m wondering why he doesn’t cut them,
And why they don’t appear orange,
like he’s been eating Cheetos,
when he begins to stroke.
I’m worried the fingernail will tear
the delicate, blanched tissue.
Just the tip of his finger inside,
my sister’s feet arch on the bottom step.
She starts to rotate her hips.
I can’t tell if his finger making circles
makes her hips move,
or vice versa.
His finger slips almost out,
and back in.
I’m breathing and biting down
hard on the molded rubber projections
inside the snorkel’s mouthpiece.
I taste blood where the flange scrapes my gums.
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Mark Parsons received is MFA from the University of Arizona. He's had poems published in Indiana Review, CrossConnect, and Curbside Splendor. He currently lives in Japan.
Find him on Mark Parsons' facebook.