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Demons

Christopher Gaskins

Daddy, we never talked
about Marjuan -
your coworker, friend, our neighbor or whatever
he was
to you; to me
he was the man who took
my clothes
off when I was eight years old.

Even now, daddy,
your wrinkled-up, snickering face, the
days
when you drank and cared
about nothing
stil block my periphery. I can't
bring to mind
what Marjuan really looked like or any expressions

he might have worn
if I'd have scratched his surface.
I only see
in shades of tan his full-
length cock, I
only feel
his two dirtied hands pushing me eagerly
towards it,

I only smell
the salt of sweat and glistening
precum,
a tangle of pubic hair
catching my tears.
When against my will and thinking of you,
your reluctant fathering,
I believe you both

were not much different.
I only taste
the dick-flavored vomit still burning
its way upward, I
only hear
the names you called me when I finally
left.
But I try to forget.

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