Imprisoned

What was that
thing uncoiling,
slowly growing
in our mother's
womb?

Did it begin there?
In those few cells
that grew into
your twisted brain
floating in a
sac of fluid
before she even
knew of your
existence?

She ran
from our father
back to her
parents,
who called
the doctor
who asked the
questions
and told her
about you.

She went back
to him, who
opened the door
and slapped
her face.

In photos
of the new
mother
holding her
first born, she
looks at you
with lies
in her eyes.

Could she see
the future?
Yours? Hers?
Or maybe
mine.

Ten years later,
I refused
to emerge from
that soft, dark
place, reluctant
to cross
the narrow
tunnel toward
the glaring
light of day.

Perhaps from
inside her
I had heard
the fighting,
the screaming,
the time she
cut our
father with a
butcher knife,

his senseless
hatred
aimed at this
new addition
to the family,

and you,
our father's son,
awaiting a new
toy to do with
as he pleased

year
after year
after year.

You never
thought I'd tell.

And now
your neighbors
pull their children
close when
passing by
your house.

You rage and kick
inside a womb
from which you
can't be born.

Daylight is your
prison cell.