My Therapist Asks If I’ve Tried Tinder

The last man who kissed me was drunk—
his hands were cold as space, but his mouth
was hot, tongue like a solar flare. I could taste
the whiskey. No. I could taste my father—
close my eyes and see his booze-soaked
smile from across the soccer field, the puke
waterfalling down the front of his shirt.
He used to get so drunk, the smell of liquor
oozed from his pores. All these years later
and I’m still my father’s daughter, I’m still
picking the puke out from my cleats.
Once, a friend told me he trusted his father
more when he was drinking. I didn’t know
what to say. I couldn’t tell him how I asked
my father to stop drinking and he threatened
to kick me out of the car. I couldn’t say
the last time a man kissed me, I cried, I cried
and I know you’re not supposed to talk
about crying in poems. I know, but listen.
I googled Interesting Space Facts and I couldn’t find
anything that fit. I couldn’t find a planet
or a star that was big enough to capture
this feeling. Let me tell you, when I
was seventeen, my mother asked me
if I was a lesbian. A boy asked me to prom
with Reese’s cups, and I told him no.
I just couldn’t and I couldn’t make my mother
understand. I just didn’t have the words.

Samantha Padgett is an MFA Candidate at Sam Houston State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poet Lore, Driftwood Press, Moon City Review, South Dakota Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Rust + Moth, After the Pause, and New Ohio Review. She lives in Huntsville, TX.