I was 9

before I would opine

in rhyme, for the first time, write I'm

not fine nor safe here... still.

 

Backhand slaps versus goddamn straps of leather; 

my brothers preferred the former; I, the latter.

Though we were raised together, we strayed fair-weather;

each of us, a temper, the brothers, our mother and father,

always angry at each other; never getting better only bitter, whether

Home or at school, I remember

nothing fondly only feared.

 

After my father disappeared,

you'd think a mother might endear

herself more near to her 3 children;

but, no, she would rather condemn them.

I internalized that ad hominem and turned it into a poem.

The first of my many children,

and I called him: "Wolf-mother."

 

Proud of it, I showed it to my older brother.

His saccadic gaze, glazed the page,

like a sage nodding his head.

Not only did I feel seen, but I also felt read.

He returned the poem to me and said, "Let's go to bed."

 

Every male-sheep led

believes its shepherd wants him fed;

never castrated.

 

Between what was Child's Play gave way to a child molested;

top bunkbed; my older brother's erection hard as lead;

revisions to my first poem danced in my head:

 Wolf-mother? No, Wolf-brother. I stand corrected....

As he finished, I played dead; diminished and emasculated;

betrayed where I bled, re-educated...

My childhood obliterate.

 

I was 9

before I would opine

in rhyme, for the first time, write I'm

not fine nor safe here... still.

 

"Not Fine nor Safe Here, Still"

written by Poet Suigeneris