It was scarlet fever when you were
first incubated.  You waited and waited
until the nurse shook that thermometer
violently down. They burned all your toys

everything you had to the ground. No visitors
at all for you. Nothing for you to hold
onto. When they sent you back home all you
had was a timid mother who tried her best

to please your half-siblings and father. You
were the prodigal son because you were the
only one she bore in that marriage. She was  
a ***** who gave up a son out of wedlock

when she was very young. She was too grateful
that anyone would want her at all, even if he was
a ***** old man who liked to run his hands
on the intimate parts of the children. They called

you the black sheep. Made you feel
unwanted. So, you sauntered around the house. And
the voices became your friends. Except they didn’t
say pretty things. They warned you of evil lurking

in your food, lurking in your bathtub, in the
****** pool of feces. And a madman you became. They
labeled you with some name. Gave you medication to
stave off the voices. Enough, I suppose to fool

a wife. But not nearly enough for that wall
of rage. You passed that to me at a tender age. I still
have it today. It reminds me of you.  I wish I could
shake it down, watch the mercury fall. But that’s what
the alcohol’s for.