a man who knew my father befriended me
he caused me to question the nature of my reality,
my history, its validity,
my possibly-false memories
all viewed through the lens
of a person
who had vested interest in
indoctrinating me
who preferred my naïveté
under guise of protectivity
parents can write stories on the folds of the cerebrum,
their pens go unchallenged
until they’re challenged /
their ink is like cord blood,
except it can re/generate — or damage
it only takes one person
to crack the sky,
then we astronomers spend
our lives asking the zealots
a non-answerable “why?”
the limineen | poet & crone 