Don’t mind how sires
will ask you to keep mute like they did in auntie’s case.
Mummy,
if you see the civil brute I call ‘Uncle’
tell him of the hymen his itchy-third-leg cracked.
Remind him of the naive hearts he dismembered
promising sweets to lure their being to his kip
as you do, part your lips and echo the wails
his burly self has put in our mouth.
Remind him of this face – the one he fondly calls
‘my wife’
before he lured her to satiate his paedophiLIC urge.
Remind him of his wife who just birthed a girl
and of his son,
teething to steal his sisters’ sun
the day I was left to nurse her alone.
Remind him of his mind; whose door’s key seems lost by lust,
And of his status of being a sire.
Remind him of nemesis’ untiring runny legs,
that will never let him be
But haunt his almost-incorrigible life
