Someday Song of the Pubescent Server

Again,
his voice
careens
down the hall:
Honey, get us a refill, willya?
Summoned
I rise,
shut my school book,
set my chin
& journey, stooped,
down the long hall
to the kitchen
where pressure cooker
& I deliberate
which of us
might blow first,
open the fridge,
crystal pitcher sweats
its own cold tears,
hear my blood
& the gin slosh
with every step
to the living room,
Ferdinand
in boxer shorts
throned beside
his Isabelle
glassy eyed,
long stem glasses
raised in welcome,
six o'clock news,
a TV chorus
of 50's communism,
the King's cock
dangles purple on his thigh
from his underwear
as I pour,
his hairy hand
reaches for my butt
but I dodge in a well-
practiced ballet,
a pas de trois,
moisture sits
on his pursed mouth,
the thought of it,
& him, stepfather, prone,
compressed flat,
onto a 45 record
whirling on my
phonograph,
diamond needle
grooving his flesh
in an opera of agony
makes me wince
really good,
while the Queen
(who exiles
my real Mother
into the Tower every night
just before cocktails)
lights her cigarette
& does her jackal laugh,
head thrown back,
I see a dark space,
a missing tooth,
I am that empty space
enameled, hard,
& tooth-shaped
honed on hate, grown sharp,
created just to chew
him into pieces
& spit him out
someday into
her empty glass,
someday.