by Nick Gisburne
I tell you story. Listen. Silent. Please.
Your mother. Wicked. Selfish. Fly away.
She leave you sick. She give you pain. Disease.
I find her, yes? I kill her? Tell me. Say.
So, story. She is angel. She is good.
She perfect. But she happy? No, is not.
In tree she find me. Hiding. Me, in wood.
But father old. Too slow. I bend. I rot.
We talk. We laugh. She fix me. Younger now.
We... private things. I do not say. Not that.
You born. You baby. She is angel. How?
And God say, “Bomination. Child is rat.”
She give you curse. She go. Go home. Go cloud.
But father. Me. I take you. Love you. Proud.
