This Is Our Currency
Moon pie eyes leaden with Easter dinner
leaning heavily Nanny's upstairs bathroom door
swings open too fast and Uncle Bernard's backwards.
Sink-high ruddy, sweating, pants down
from inside the porcelain cracks and I sharp
back away snap shut. He would have
waddled, pulled to arrive so quickly
face forced through the chain peeping,
cartoon bank robber. I was only eight.
Shamed faced awkwardly Englishman in
John Wayne—Pardon me, little lady. I crimsoned.
Downstairs and fixed on the paisley carpet,
he shuddered back and we neither said a word
through rum-soaked trifle and for twenty years shrugging
I thought that's how he brushed his teeth.
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