After my parents took the newborn
nursery away, the companionable
rows of fisted infants, humming nurses,
I became a cynic.
With no words for disillusionment
or treachery or theft, no concept
of expulsion, I had no choice
but to look happy with my bottle,
take in their words, listen
warily to their tone of voice.
To use their language
meant selling out
and giving up my private one.
Then they held me,
then I was seduced.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 1.
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