Canned Father (edit2)

[ChristopherSea]

Leah/brownlie/Paul edit2, Thanks guys!

Canned Father

You consumed canned doppelgangers
of vegetable forms, mushy zombies
that you made me swallow,
sodden specters of daunting childhood
recollections that I vomit up
now and then.

Thirty years later, Mom told me
you were sorry Dad, but I saw your peas,
clad in olive drab army fatigues
and shuddered at the ensuing combat.
It didn't matter that you were a war hero
who defied dispiriting Panzers,
liberated Jews from Natzwiller
and subsisted on k-rations for months.

As demoralizing as your
Battle of the Bulge,
the dinnertime Vietnam War
News, or newfangled MREs,
were your baked beans. Dodgy,
whether canned or jarred,
staining napkins burnt sienna,
your skin color every summer
slathered with baby oil and iodine
like a bronze war memorial,
burnished and unpalatable.

I cried over beans,
dreaded your lima's
sandbagging my lamb chops.
They were skin-tough and bloated,
like peas in absurd disguise. Carbuncles
removed from botanical beasts
that burst with a squirt
of gangrenous pus. I lanced
them with my incisors,
gagged on their waxy cuticles.

Dad, I am not sorry
for loving fresh vegetables
and refusing to go to Dental School,
but I think of you often
since you have passed-

even if forever reminded
of creepy canned things.


-----------------------------------------
Leah edit1, Thank you

Canned Father

You consumed canned doppelgangers
of vegetable forms, mushy zombies
that you made me swallow,
sodden specters of daunting childhood
recollections that I vomit up
now and then.

Thirty years later, Mom told me
you were sorry Dad, but I saw your peas,
clad in olive-green army fatigues,
and shuddered at the ensuing combat.
It didn't matter that you were a war hero
who faced dispiriting Panzers,
liberated Jews from Natzwiller,
subsisted on k-rations for months.

As demoralizing as your
Battle of the Bulge,
the dinnertime Vietnam War
News, or newfangled MREs,
were your baked beans. Dodgy,
whether canned or jarred,
staining napkins burnt sienna,
your skin color by late summer,
slathered with baby oil and iodine
like a bronze war memorial,
burnished and unpalatable.

I cried over beans,
dreaded your Lima's
sandbagging my lamb chops.
They were skin-tough and bloated,
like peas in absurd disguise. Carbuncles
removed from botanical behemoths
that burst with a squirt
of gangrenous pus. I lanced
them with my incisors,
gagged on their waxy cuticles.

Dad, I am not sorry
for loving fresh vegetables
and refusing to go to Dental School,
but I think of you often
since you have passed-

even if forever reminded
of scary canned things.


----------------------------------------------------

Canned Father

You consumed canned doppelgangers
of vegetative forms, mushy zombies
that you made me swallow,
sodden specters of daunting childhood
recollections that I vomit up
now and then.

Thirty years later, Mom told me
you were sorry Dad, but I saw your peas,
clad in olive green army fatigues,
and shuddered at the ensuing combat.
It didn't matter that you were a war hero
who faced dispiriting Panzers,
liberated Jews from Natzwiller,
subsisted on k-rations for months.

As demoralizing as your
Battle of the Bulge,
the dinnertime Vietnam War
News or newfangled MREs,
were your baked beans. Dodgy,
whether canned or jarred,
staining napkins burnt sienna,
your skin color late summer,
slathered with baby oil and iodine
like a bronze war memorial,
burnished and unpalatable.

I cried over beans Dad,
dreaded your Lima's
sandbagging my chops.
They were skin-tough and bloated,
like peas in absurd disguise. Carbuncles
removed from botanical behemoths
that burst with a squirt
of gangrenous puss. I lanced
them with my incisors,
gagged on their waxy cuticles.

Dad, I am not sorry
for loving fresh vegetables
and refusing to go to Dental School,
but I think of you often
since you have passed-

even if forever reminded
of scary canned things.