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Spring 2007 - Volume 29, Number 2
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Washing Faces
Until I stopped being a little girl,
my father washed his face next to me
with iridescent wallpaper,
flickering arches, mother-of-pearl.
I hated the cold rivulets
that ran down around to the back
of my neck, finding new paths
to the ash brown wisps
that fell out of my ponytail.
He had a small hole
in the back of his neck,
an inverted scar, a loss.
The pink eraser at the end
of a number two pencil
was a perfect fit when I poked.
He told me the hole
was from being in the army,
not by choice, in the USSR;
from being too miserable,
or too deprived to wash
the hard to reach places.
Infection ensued.
Making me guilty enough
to rub the bar of Dove
into a purple washcloth.
I watched the fibers
turn feather white.
Terrified of the soap's sting,
I scrunched my eyes
and blindly rinsed the cloth.
Blinking, I watched my father
wash, using his hands,
splashing water directly
into his face, not frightened, but angry.
And then, like two deer,
father and daughter in unison
bowed their heads to the sink.
-By Rachel Malis
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| Calendar |
Poetry and Prose Deadline!
Thu 10.30 // 05:00pm //
Please have your poetry and prose submitted to us by this date.
Art Deadline!
Sat 11.15 // 05:00pm //
Please have all art submissions to us by this date.
View the Calendar... |
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