The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: The Pink I Must Have Worn by Scarlett Peterson

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Ode to My Father

The way that spit gathers 
in the corners of your mouth— 
that is how you taught me to love:
with gaps, bits of substance
as insubstantial as sputum,
the sign of a need for water
or a good cleaning.

Father, you set the bar impressively low. 
I spent ten years looking for a man like you,
slept next to them naked, two dozen men
made their way into my bed
before I realized each one of them was you—
your hard eyes, your dark hair,
your crooked bastard smile.

I learned how to leave them, father, 
and you, in my wake.

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