Scenes from childhood: fire in the furnace
in my father’s face, chapped hands
gentle as Jesus till the hour strikes.
Watching the woodchopper wind lay waste
the tree next door
teaches the sapling to bend; to taste
the spit on the Pear of Anguish, see
blood on the Spanish Tickler
keeps irreverent laughter
stuck in the throat,
as monks prostrate themselves and chant
before their god, incarnate in the Grand Inquisitor.
In the dank dungeon of a sunny playroom
doors locked, windows sealed, no one escapes:
my brother in the arms of the Iron Maiden, me,
the witness ignored, dismissed
untorn by tongs, unstretched, uncrushed
all passion spent
all spirit flown
stigmata tattooed on the tender flesh inside
the illusion of my luck.
