My Father Tells us of the Monster in the Pink House 
  
 By  Victoria Korth



 Let me dwell in what was described.
 Sun clash on a sheet metal sea
 rippling it at a single touch, bow rise 
 and thump over sharp edged waves, 
 engine whine tick to a higher C, tackle 
 box tucked in the fiberglass hull.
  
 There, on its tidal island, the one 
 named for me, head up scanning quizzical air, 
 caught outside its low-walled house 
 that very moment before heading to bed. 
 Long multilobed body like a beetle-snake, 
 whiff of salt-grass in its silver fur. 
  
 My father waves. The boat mutters past. 
 And I am still listening as if through dream,
 struggling awake to hear him tell.
 Wherever he was going he has not arrived.
 Morning and night, I await his return,
 his voice once more, his sun-blind eyes.  

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