Saturn

It was our favorite game. My sisters and I

escorted him to the usual place

at the foot of the stairs. His slick-back hair

gleaming black, he grinned down at us

pulled off his jacket and tie: big neck, big chest

ex-tackle for the Big Ten. He closed his eyes

as he lay on the floor and sprawled on his back.

He passed into a solemn hibernation.

My pulse raced. Anne sat on his legs and grabbed

his ankles, her strong arms rigid as she pinned

his feet. Nancy knelt on his left arm.

I remember her blond bangs and battered shins

who with gap-toothed fury whispered He's sleeping. Quick!

I dug my knees deep in his bicep, pressed

my hands in the thick fur of his wrist.

I stared at my hands.

Then his chest moved with a groan, his white shirt

rose and fell. I smelled my father’s body

the complexity of his sweat. The hand flexed—

we cried out when suddenly the whole frame

shifted. We tried to escape

but he pulled us all into the air

with a growl and swayed as he stood, kissing

the combined bodies of his three children.

And we were convinced in our ecstasy

that our father was eating us.

And we believed he would not put us down.

And the hand, the arm, the hairy wrist

the smell of sweat, the gleaming head

are more real than my own body now.

My sisters kneel on the floors of their houses.

They are searching for his arms and legs.

I know what happens next. I make a fist

and feel the minutes digging in my wrist.