DRECK

EDY GUY

FATHER FACE

The father in me wraps her lips around hard objects. Watches
as the woman on screen blindfolds a man in handcuffs, pierced
nipples cresting above a black bra, pushes a black thong into
his mouth which he eats eagerly. I am not this kind of father: one
that sits on the ground and takes it, although I pretend to be. I
am exactly the father that keeps pushing the bound-man’s hands
back toward his hard self no matter how hungry he gets. I am the way
she arches her ass toward his face so he can smell it and the moment
when she turns upside down to taste him. I am that specific wanting
to give when I say so. When she grinds on his face, awesome labia
bucking against his teeth, nose, tongue searching for some home,
I am alive with a glory for which there is only wonder, so I do
not consider what’s between me until I know she, the father, is close
and by then I have lost sight—eyes flickering from the back of
my head to my face, unfixed in disruption near perfect.

Edy is a poet (etc.) from the Midwest living in Portland, Oregon. She writes and talks with writers on the Substack, Intertext, and her other publications can be found at edyguy.com.