I REMEMBER NOT MY SWEET INFANCY

spent in my mother’s arms
when I had a bout of Colic
as I laid in my wooden prisson
while she guzzled a cold Pepsi.

I remember my sweet infancy
spent in my father’s arms
early in the morning as he dressed
me to take me on the bread-truck
to West Yellowstone.

Father was a machine of human flesh
until he died in 2001.
Mother unfortunately played both roles.
When father died,

mother briefly reached out to me.
She held me close to tell me she loved me
as she kissed my check and I whispered
that I wanted to die—join my father,
the only one who loved and protected me.

I remember not my sweet infancy . . .