From the Fishouse

You narrow it down to three—
the first episode of South Park,
the first time you read Sharon Olds,
& the Field Day spent under the bleachers
with Victoria, your fingernails
becoming taxis of her scent, her pupils
fading like marbles into a grate.
At nine, you asked your father
about the rusted dispenser
screwed into the men’s room at Duffy’s
& Scotch sprayed through his nose.
You fingered the change slot
& fed it your pinball allowance
but nothing came out.
It was Sharon Olds who killed you
with the father’s cock & the mother’s cunt,
the cartoon probes & pelvis-spills
what shocked you, Victoria’s tang
on your nails after tug of war,
the one you skipped & told your teammates
your fingers were crossed for them.
These are the boulevards you cannot rip
from your eyes. There was the Lucky Seven
& Naranjito, La Chica Fuego,
a cigarette puckered between her labia,
loops of smoke twirling out
like an exorcism before a neon backdrop.
All this at fifteen, plaid skirts
cutting you off in school hallways.
Your father’s invisible son, Pepito,
was a day older than you
& hit the buzzer shots you missed,
held his breath longer underwater.
Remember when you brought Victoria home
& your father said Pepito
had already fucked her? & your first time,
how she bled, & you thought
you’d murdered the prodigal son,
the condom drowned
in the eye of the toilet’s undertow?
None of it matters. Not your father’s
sagging gray lungs or the naive
objectification of your title.
You’ve narrowed it down to three—
& wouldn’t we like to see Cartman
slugging it out with Sharon Olds,
& isn’t Victoria a name you’ve made up
to protect the identity of C.,
& wasn’t C. a slut
for skipping away with the Ethics teacher,
the cross on her necklace
swaying like a silver pendulum,
& didn’t you buy her that cross
with your pinball allowance, which was
surely a bill cheaper than Pepito’s?
When you first taught Creative Writing
& assigned a “How To” poem,
a girl with a tongue stud wrote
“How To Fuck an English Teacher
for a Good Grade,” & her first line read,
“Write a ‘How To Fuck an English Teacher
for a Good Grade’ poem.” Maybe
your mouth watered, & maybe
you read Sharon Olds to the class
& said, if you can’t write sex like this
you can’t write sex at all, & yes, you are
older now & going against that,
narrowing it down to three
though none of it matters. Not the cherry-
flavored-chapstick or C.’s number
in the phonebook, 787-4797.
Not your life, that instant between
the last seven & the first ring.
Not how you hang up & she punches star-69
& you retreat from the accusing phone.