In the beginning was my mommy.
She gave me a dolly; she gave me
Rictus spanned mad death's head.
Crouching, drooling, over what?
The object of her pique
Was on the floor somewhere,
Uninstantiated. But she,
With that gift of hers,
Could see what was so
Irritating. She turned to grin
Disconcertingly, unmanning me,
As I came down the stairs
In my pajamas. I was nine, or seven,
Maybe, or five, but I knew to
Marvel at the mottled skin,
The gloss-black hair and eloquence:
Affairs of sin. Her eyes whirled wild
Like horses' eyes and corkscrewed tongues
In the Guernica of Picasso.
The colors were amazing. The truth,
Grey paint, so long later,
Was amazing too.
She gave me a maze, I guess.
By one who was dead.