My Father’s Good Son by Simcha Kobernik-Pollack
As we fry chicken and pickles
On our rundown gas stove,
I feel like my father’s good son.
As I stand with my big pants
Sagging real low,
And pretend not to flinch
At the jumping oil,
I feel like my father’s good son.
I agree with him,
That my mother was wrong,
That her boyfriend’s an idiot,
That this movie’s too long.
We talk about camping,
And we spit,
And we laugh.
A deep belly laugh,
Not a dainty girl laugh.
I fish,
And I box,
And I sleep on the couch.
We talk about things,
Like the ugly new building
That’ll block out the sun,
How silly my sister is,
How I’m so much like her.
It seems I can’t help but ruin it all,
With my long flowy skirts,
And my blue eyeshadow.
I cry at cats and dogs and movies and books,
I hide boys with bare chests under the covers
Where my parents won’t look,
My feelings are oh so tender.
Though I tell my mom,
That my family has it all wrong;
That I’m still their kid, just not their daughter,
I know from the way I shrink under his stare,
I’m not my father’s good son.