I don’t know what to say.
And how many times have you heard that?
Such a cliche to write about
how cliche it is to write about a cliche.
And I could go on.
Like the mirrors at the Stafford house
showing a million mes, all the same
but growing smaller, like Russian dolls–
another cliche– or strength
of features, generation to the next.
That rogue gene, the one
passed down from great aunt Theor
whose mother was raped
by a murderer.
Every birth they’d pray
to silent gods,
spare this child, this child.
And each time they would.
The gods did and did, until Frankie.
And what sweet things he saw his victims as
each growing smaller and smaller
like the mirrors
that showed a million hims, reflected back–
the Russian dolls– was that what he thought,
as he cut them out?
One by one, growing smaller.
Like the family still pray
for his gene.
Let it spare this child and this one