At dinner, my dad says after I was born
_             _ I devoured laced milk. My mother’s
_                           _ brined sorrow was my first elixir for sleep.

I learned from her how to cry without stopping
_             _ in those first months.

Motherhood
_             _ & its sorrow were entwined monsters.
_                             _Let him speak plainly: he would have left her

alone with my monstrous infancy & my brother,
_             _ only three, playing with his trains on the floor.

I want to reduce berry down to bitter.
_             _ I want to tell stories of my self-centeredness like I invented it.

The trick is to tell stories like a man.
_                           _ The trick is every story is a hero’s journey
_             _ if it’s told without remorse.

My inheritance is my mother’s honeycombed sorrow,
_             _ my father’s deluged retreat.

I read once that female babies survive stressful pregnancies
_                           _ more often than males.
Even at birth they leave when it’s too hard.

Misread
_               _ “mothers” as monster,

_                           _ miss the other in the middle, moth
drawn to bright window at night

as he leaves, and says the children are only hers.