Red Zone Kate McIntyre
I hang a piñata shaped like my father’s face from a goalpost at my high school football field. My first smack frees his denture. His nose caves next and out pours clove-flavored gum, tubs of Noxema, green daubers of Absorbine Jr., bone-in chicken breasts, loose change, and a pack of rolling papers. I keep the rolling papers, but I shovel everything else back through his nose. My high school class observes me from the sideline. They wear lab coats and hold clip boards. They sip Gatorade from little paper cups. My father’s face has fallen down. It’s lighter than I expect. I shield my face with my father’s face and run under the bleachers, where I meet an old boyfriend. He explains the graphs on his clipboard. The graphs are about me, but I don’t understand. He puts on my father’s face and we make out. He tastes like clove gum. I peel off my own face and place it, tenderly, over my father’s face on my boyfriend’s face. A bell tolls to signal a touchdown.