My mother said sex was like getting a shot
from the doctor.  I had asked her
what humping was. My feet stuck
to the kitchen’s laminate floor

that summer night.  She said, probing
my face, that sex hurt.  She continued
to unload the dishwasher, plate
by plate. My father walked in

and said to keep the noise
down. The fluorescent light
above us hummed.  He went back
into the living room and turned up

the tv. I leaned into the white speckled
counter as my mother fitted
forks and knives into the drawer,
then slammed the spoons.