substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
Basement, 2007
It
soon became the place where Dad
would lead us, by hand, to binge-watch
the Alien movies. I sat straddled, struck
by the brute force of tentacle on man.
There were so many tentacles and so many
men, and so, sitting there with Dad, I felt
safe. He was the only man I knew. I would often
look around for impending tentacles but usually,
in the shadowy light of the home theater, I could only
decipher the outline of the sofa, the curvature
of Dad’s collarbone, the jut of his stomach. My brother
whined because I was always the one to sit
on Dad’s lap. My brother whined
when the tentacle circled around the girl
character, her wince taut under the grip of slime.
I couldn’t watch. I sat straddled, stuck in Dad’s lap.
I couldn’t escape. These were important, lesson-teaching
moments. I stared at the back wall for each two hour
duration, telling myself agony was a language
that I needed to learn. Memorizing the way she screamed,
the way he beckoned others to help, to save, to
fight, the way the monsters rumbled was all very
analogous to the math worksheets at breakfast. I sat
there with my jaw clenched, my fists digging
crescent moons into palms. My arms were tentacles
then, circled around Dad’s neck, with me staring
into blackness until blackness filled the screen.
would lead us, by hand, to binge-watch
the Alien movies. I sat straddled, struck
by the brute force of tentacle on man.
There were so many tentacles and so many
men, and so, sitting there with Dad, I felt
safe. He was the only man I knew. I would often
look around for impending tentacles but usually,
in the shadowy light of the home theater, I could only
decipher the outline of the sofa, the curvature
of Dad’s collarbone, the jut of his stomach. My brother
whined because I was always the one to sit
on Dad’s lap. My brother whined
when the tentacle circled around the girl
character, her wince taut under the grip of slime.
I couldn’t watch. I sat straddled, stuck in Dad’s lap.
I couldn’t escape. These were important, lesson-teaching
moments. I stared at the back wall for each two hour
duration, telling myself agony was a language
that I needed to learn. Memorizing the way she screamed,
the way he beckoned others to help, to save, to
fight, the way the monsters rumbled was all very
analogous to the math worksheets at breakfast. I sat
there with my jaw clenched, my fists digging
crescent moons into palms. My arms were tentacles
then, circled around Dad’s neck, with me staring
into blackness until blackness filled the screen.