by Brett Rutherford
By the age of six,
I was programmed to cry.
A loud noise would do it.
most certainly, and so many
that my memory is wiped.
But this I recall,
a war of wills. One slap
on face or bottom
and my mother was rid of me
as I wailed and ran.
One day I read,
in the only book around
about "childish things"
and putting them aside.
So I walked up to her
and said, "Never again.
will you make me cry."
"You little brat! Just like
your father!" Slap! Slap!
I reeled. I bit my lip,
Tears came. I whimpered.
But I did not cry. Not then,
and never after. Self,
sovereign and free, I was.
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