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.