Orange Soda
Mary B. Chow
Always thought of Terror
Having to go with my dad
Silent screams of “NO!”
A deep stomach-pit dread
Aching to drag my feet,
Dig in my heels
Postpone the seemingly inevitable
Always different place
In the woods, at the lake
Along a lonely road, in the attic
Mid afternoon, late evening
Always the smells
Body odor, rancid alcohol
Always the unbreable piercing
Twiga scraping my skin
Insects biting tender flesh
Rocks beneath me
Grinding into me above
The burning afterward as I peed
Always afterward
At some bar
Sitting alone
Invisible in a booth with
Orange soda:
As if it could repair the damage
