When I was a child,
my father told me
I had a miscreant’s mouth
and a ne’er do well’s nose.

In the nights then,
my fingers bled feathers
and my brothers
bit my ears.

My sisters‬ and I
were ne’er to start,
yet we shared‬ the same father
so cooked from his fire.

Our mother‬ desired,
so delighted,
to have us‬ become
real‪ mother‪s, too.

Though she‬ was not‪ much‪
for mother‪-teaching‪ us,
so I left the family to grow
a ne’er boy of my own…

‪I aged and fell away
and imitated a‪ mother‪
despite the feathers
that fell from me.‬

‪My brothers aged,
more‪ interested
in‪ beautiful‪ women‪
obscured behind‪‪ counters.‬

‪I was‬ taken in by‪ a thing
pretending, and made lost‪
from‪ the‪ world
because‪ of‪‪ beauty.‬

‪My sisters‬
became bakers
and shopkeepers
and I turned towards them.‬

‪‪I‪ entered‪ their‪ shop‪,‬
and opened boxes
while their customers‪
stood by, impatient.‬

‪Inside the boxes
I‪ beheld their treats;
treats just like
little boxes.

‪I stared up
at my sisters,
box of boxes in hand;
ne’er such expression‪s.‬

‪They were quick
to‪ understand
and from the counter,
handed‪ me‪ a‪n empty box.‬

‪At last, they‪ pointed‪ back
to our shared pasts‬
and ne’er once asked
for explanations.