Onanism

She was for masturbation,

for getting to know yourself,

sexually. She caressed

her leg as she spoke. She sensed



unresolved conflict, Oedipal

strivings. Her own daughter,

she said, would walk

naked in her bra, try to take

her place on bed. This was nothing



to cry about. Every girl

wanted what mother had, wanted

her mother. She had my parents

in analysis and group. I would hear



her muffled name

through their door, as I lay

in bed, making

the first tentative gestures

toward myself, touching

thighs, hair. A woman

might do this with waxed

fruit, the back

of a hairbrush, a long

silver object borrowed

from a husband. One inserted the walking

stick, spilled



herself, fucked

its antique head. Fucked

the monogrammed head

of the father. 

Left to her own



devices, one straddled

a vacuum cleaner, enticed

a puppy, led

the warm animal tongue

to her lap. Long ago

I imagined myself

conceived in masturbation.

My father handing

the great white seed

to my mother, who took it

on her fingertip,

and placed it delicately

inside her body.