as a child
when i couldn’t sleep,
i’d slink into my parents’ bedroom
and tickle my father’s calloused feet
it was a futile mission:
there was our dog romeo’s
woolly body sprawled across the hallway leading to their room
(a poor sentry my father brought home one christmas)
his deafening bark, its own hurricane
then my mother,
(staunch apologist for southern child-rearing)
up late leafing lazily through a romance novel
dividing our turfs
was a short staircase of
splintered steps chipped in dull cream
how furtively did i melt into the stairs like pudding
erupting in a baleful grin when my tiny feet graced the landing
then i waited,
folding my breath into thin sheets
until the room was trimmed in glowing strips of light from the street lamp
all it took was a feathery touch for my father to leap up in a gasping pant
mouth agape, scanning the room in blind fury
defenseless,
clenching my mother’s thigh with panic
i remember this
when he shouts
in between cascading spurts of terror
that he too
is a boy.
Fay Sachpatzidis is a native New Yorker with southern tendencies. Her favorite word is dingbat. She is a recipient of the Academy of American Poets prize established by John Ashbery. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Caldera Magazine, and The Harpoon Review, among other places.
Instagram @whereisfay
Photo on Foter.com