i never laid there, at her breast

i never laid there, at her breast,
and so i never turned, in a moment
before sleep, or in innocent joy, seeking,
and bit her, as only a son bites
a mother; so i didn't, but i would have.

i remember starving and lifting the plate
of food over my head, and holding it, a moment,
holding her, with my gaze, and shrieking
as it sailed across the kitchen, away from me;
i remember the screaming joy, and dream of the fear and the hunger.

i see me stopping, behind my father, in the park,
to question some weedy flower, for a moment,
hearing him scolding, calling, and wanting to go streaking
off and torment him a bit, before he recaptured me
in fits if freedom's laughter; but i never dared.

i bent, in stealth, and seeming disinterest,
to lightly finger the toy my brother found
all the world in, and smelling, for a moment,
the scent of the love i should have felt for him
but could never locate in me; and so i disbelieved the whole story.

i recall getting all i thought i wanted
and still, crying out, in my dark room, down
where the rugs writhed with all the monsters of the moment;
and i sat up straight as a soldier, in my bed,
in a cold sweat; and i learned to be alone, and to fight.

no, i never laid there, at her breast,
the rest of the world safely far away
and unthreatening, securely enfolded in love's arms, not even for a moment;
so i never had that quiet place
far fom the riot of life's race, to go to and feel loved in,
and so i've learned to be alone so very well.