I couldn’t understand the violence
the rage of a child swinging a chain
to beat me away, I didn’t see
the future that came of it.
The roughed up birth, the secrets
of his misshapen body mind, birthing
poorly, whether his heart stopped or not.
His mother never saw him then.
His grandmothers fear of madness
coming to this first grandchild,
no one knew what she was thinking
fear driving all her manic acts,
she stole the baby away for a while.
Gave him her fear, before mother’s love
reclaimed him. Was it too late?
this infection of the primal soul,
a family curse reborn.
I have wondered about this for decades
as the boy grew in angry withdrawal
from play with friends and school.
Are we so easily cast, molded incestuously
into the form we will become
whether wishing it or not?
What we see as so extreme, so obviously wrong
an implantation, is there one in us all
in lesser ways as well,
we cannot tell, as we forget
our beginning, subtle, well meant
gifts of nativity.
1/14/2013 Kent Bowker