by Elizabeth May

After dinner, Dad would drown
the sponge in dirty dishwater,

maneuvering thumbs to cram it
between my lips, salty grease

and soap bubbles frothing
at the back of my tongue.

I whimpered, gagged on the soggy
debris. Man-sized digits clamped

my nostrils, his eyelashes scraping mine.
You spoiled, selfish little c___.

We’d both wish me into
nothingness, if we could.

Elizabeth May is a writer whose poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review, 2 Bridges Review, and QWERTY. She lives with her husband in Kansas City. Connect with her at www.elizabethmaywriting.com.