Once there was just the three of them:
Two teenagers and a infant,
And he was the infant boy.
He was as open as stretched and primed canvas,
As innocent as a lamb,
Responsive to any touch,
Sensitive to any sound,
Eager to taste,
But unsure about touching -
Unsure of the limits of his body,
Only strong enough to hold tightly
Onto the intentional finger
From some exploring hand.
Who was mother?
Who was father?
One was in a smell.
Another in a tone of voice.
A touch, a taste, a smiling face.
Would that it could stay right there,
But there was not only gentle stimuli.
There were yells and crashes
Grimaces and neglect
And abuse.
Music and peace.
Music and violence.
Gentle water,
Harsh touch.
Mad mother.
Mad father.
Retreating infant.
No where to go,
But inside.
No comments:
Post a Comment