lilli, lilli, lilli,
now sacred and independent of mother,

all new
to be caught up in this cycle again?
the doors were many,
the keys were few,

and now you’re here in my arms,
the arms of an uncle’s friend
visiting objectively,
wondering
if some day you’ll wonder
why you’re here
and wondering
what might cause such thoughts to surface
in your pure, unadulterated mind.

let this be our answer.

mother of seventeen
to grow old and fat and unfulfilled
violated the pact she will soon teach you
and later repented and kept you.

father of seventeen
to grow desolate and disconsolate and cold
valued not himself
and will passively teach you to follow suit.
but you must not follow suit.

lilli, when you are of seventeen,
will life be worth living?
or will you hand your own infant to an older poet
who whispers in its ear,
“perhaps if you had never been born?”