the moon is not a dog. The moon paces the sky
like a worried parent. No, ridiculous. The moon’s
just the moon, though could be compared to
my father's face, pockmarked from teenage acne,
scarred by basal cell carcinoma resulting from
radiation therapy aimed at halting puberty’s assault.
Moon and face, both riddled from eruptions
and bombardments. That’s the extent of their likeness.
The moon is neither romantic nor sad. My father’s face
was mostly sad, unloved, at least, by me—the primitive
crudeness spewed from that foul mouth, witnessed by
my appalled Boston Brahmin friends. Unbearably embarrassed,
I’d slink in the front seat as he drove the carpool each day
to our prissy girl's school. The worst? I thought his filth,
his sexual, scatological jokes, his similes—that raspberry
turnover dribbling down your chest is like a girl's…—
(fill in the blanks if you can even imagine the perversity)
hilarious. Yes, I thought he was hilarious. And disgusting.
He couldn't help himself. Lenny Bruce on steroids. I say it again,
hilarious, and I admit that was my real shame, keeping back
my laughter and my encouragement for more. Also,
as I think of it all now—those jokes, those
stunningly shocking comparisons—as I recall the humiliations—
I think, no, I’m sure he hated women.
