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My Mother's NipplesTo Stephanie Rogers's previous piece

Fathers, Teach Your Daughters How to Dance 

He held it in his hand, suppose I watched? 
Then, up and down, he stroked. I froze. I watched. 

They danced as if a couple learning steps. 
His hand, the feet; the head, her toes. I watched. 

The rhythm shuffled, hurried, he went faster. 
His member stood erect, in pose, I watched. 

I saw a substance spray from him like water. 
It shot onto his chest, his clothes, I watched. 

My father stood up breathless, then he saw. 
"Hey, Steph, come here and sit." It rose. I watched.