These two of disparate genes
were once Mother, Father;
 
These linoleumed tunnels
the marbled halls of my grade school,
 
where the children’s orchestra,
now squeak and squawk,
seemed mellifluous splendor.
 
At that time “Tales of a Harem,”
filled with typos on pulpy paper
and read in a chicken coop,
bulged my innocent eyes,
 
as did a stripper’s instep,
filly-like in six—inch heels —
heels that now appear prostheses,
her foot a tortured foot.
 
And these early pictures
now past wistful
are images fading,
a growing tabula rasa.

(1995)

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