by John Clinton
I was born the day I died
my father gave me his name
like his father before him
& his father before that
All fathers love their sons
they just don’t know how
to show it, photographs do
always proving to be true
I remember taking a shower
with my father, the tiles green
my eyes blue, began to burn
with Johnson’s baby shampoo
He would take me to the badlands
for vision quests, we once heard
a rattlesnake on the trail
& were not afraid
I once saw my mothers breasts
her areola were dark brown
everything is innocent & pure
when you are very young
She would hum & read to me
in perfect Brooklynese
Strega Nona, as I fell asleep
in Ghostbuster bed sheets
I believe in parental love, now
for my childhood is forever
just polaroids from the 80′s
where Flatbush is holy & home
