Dion O’Reilly
Dick and Jane’s Dad
All day, Father stuffed dead grass into bags, pruned
shrubs into mouse shapes. Changed deadbolts,
deodorized garbage cans, dragged dirty tools
across the oily khaki of his pants.
Weekends, he inhabited a secret rental with a round mirror,
closets stuffed with corsets and hat boxes, stiletto
heels lining the Linoleum.
He leaned over his arsenal of witchy dust and kohl.
Poppy-red lip gloss and Aquanet.
Turned his painted décolletage toward the light and sobbed,
never convinced of his beauty. He couldn’t pass
as Dick and Jane’s mother, walk down the shady
sidewalk in a shirtdress waving to the neighbors.
He hated any signs of softness in his son.
From the beginning, kept him from
princess stories, tittie milk, lap sitting.
Threw baseball gloves in his face. Took him to the range.
Nowadays Dick, old enough for social security,
likes to huff dental gas and wash down
kratom with a cocktail. Tells Jane he’s damaged
all the way to his bleached-out DNA.
This seems like a simple story.
Father loved Dick enough to try to kill
the woman who lived inside them both.
Then he stowed his own wayward heart
like a mistress in a condo—nothing but
a wet bar for company—
where he shows up once a week
and bruises her good, smears her harlot lipstick
across his face. Her face. His face.
Poems by Dion O’Reilly have appeared or will appear in New Ohio Review, Sugar House Review, Rattle, The Sun, Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Bellingham Review, Atlanta Review, Catamaran, and other journals and anthologies. O’Reilly has spent much of her life on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains. She has worked as a waitress, barista, baker, theater manager, graphic designer, and public school teacher.
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