Swallowing Ron Desantis’s Secretary’s Assistant

I think about my father’s shoe collection
and my bare feet on the garage floor:
fifty different looks to grow into,

but my toes still won’t touch the tips.

I’m grown and a size nine
and he’s an eleven,

and another man is standing over me,
moaning,

and,

oh my god,

he’s so ugly.

He didn’t even open the door
to let me in, wouldn’t let me
touch his face,

even though he is perfectly fine with penetrating me.

He wants lips without feeling,
a throat full of spit,

a body laced with blood and desire,

and as he chokes me,
filling all the spaces,

I think about my Dad’s Air Jordans,
his yellow Crocs covered in dirt,
the pair of Heelys he bought
when they were still hot,

the crown of Adidas in every color.

In and out, back and forth,
tongues and soles

and feet touching the naked earth;

on my knees, looking up,
I think about power
and I think about shoes

and I think about how I am only one
in an ever growing collection.

Nikes, sons, lovers,
boys and men,
I am swallowing all their potential.

Give it to me, daddy,

I think as his head falls back
and he sinks into submission,
crumpling like a sock,

like an old pair of slippers.

This is power,
on my knees,
thinking, reaching,
swallowing,
growing into my inheritance.

Barefoot like a baby,
I am taking, I am taking, I am taking,
I am coming back for more.

Feed me, daddy,

I think, hungry for the weakness
he mistakes as strength,

my silence stuffed
with legs, his pants,

my father’s shoes and socks.

I am ready, I am ready,
give me more and more and more.

Touch my tonsils,
pull my hair,

don’t stop until I say so.

Look at you, old man,
withered like a used pair of New Balances.

I am the new Summer collection.

I am soft straps on a pair of sandals,
the very thing that keeps you
holding it together.

Parker Logan is originally from Orlando, Florida, and he is a graduate of FSU. He currently lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He is pursuing an MFA at LSU and tends to his poetry garden with his friends.