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.