I often wonder why he hated me,
what it was that drove him,
and what I had done to deserve it.
Scarcity and fear, thirst and sick,
There's not enough for me now
My mother remembers,
He loved you, as she hands me
a picture, high exposure:
my infant body half-asleep, drooling, smiling,
his toddler face, eyes crinkled,
lips pressed upon my soft, fat cheek.
I don't remember that.
I remember the curled, fatty muscle of his hand
landing on my shoulders, my arms, my back,
over and over, over and over.
No knuckles, never in the face.
A nasal-rushed snarl,
a barb on his tongue,
razor-wire lips,
and all their violence.
I remember learning what I was:
stupid, weak, small—f-ck-ng r-t-rd, shut up, f-gg-t.
And yet at the park,
when Mickey pulled my hair and sicced his dog,
burying teeth deep into soft flesh,
I remember the weight of a body crashing.
Mickey, crying loud, running home,
his hand over his face, bloodied and bruised,
and my brother darts away on his bike.