My mother's penis is hot pink.
I found it in her drawer when I was six,
underneath her nightgowns,
turned it on and watched it hum
through the orange shag, leaving a trail
like a small aimless torpedo.
After a series of after-school afternoons,
it would die in a fading whir at my feet,
only to be refreshed for play a few days later.
My young single mother:
How many nights — lonely and wanting —
did you go to your penis and find it dead?
How many emergency flashlights, how many
babydolls' backs did you rip open in the fucking dark
searching for just two goddamn batteries with one
orgasm's worth of voltage left?
Let me apologize. While roaring jetplanes
took off around you all day at work,
I was home checking your penis
for power. It was my electric sword,
my magic pen, my microphone,
a neon rocketship, and once, I confess, I even used it
to mix chocolate Quik into my milk.
On the day it was missing, I stripped
your dresser, your closet, the bed,
refolded every panty, nightgown and camisole
to cover my trail. For a good two months,
I'd roll my hand through your underthings.
But your penis was gone.
Now that I'm grown, tell me. I wonder:
Did you take it from me on purpose?
Because, you should understand:
I know I loved it more than you did.