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.