A fortune told about a newborn

Or: A deserving mother

He will maul every molecule
of alcohol, will step on the jaw
of an immigrant at his high noon,
will fidget at the sight of his room
too small for him, will light the place
on fire and race down the street
dragging the neighbor’s head behind him,
and despite that you will think him sweet.
Your pets, all siblings incomplete,
he will bury them at night like
a rodent in your pantry who eats
every good gesture before him
knowing of wrong but not of right,
and while funerals fill the town
you will kiss his forehead, bed him down.
He will grow erect as you touch his cheek
clandestine, clutching the cancer given him,
the pound that will make you weep
as he rapes the goodwill of his parentage
and mocks you on your knees,
yet less than half-dead there
as he rocks your brain matter
you will, then, rise up gasping
and beg him hug you rasping
and he will jerk away in ecstasy,
will stomp your motherhood with his feet
and despite that you will think him sweet.

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~ by Jeremy on January 3, 2011.

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