(In memory of  my parents, Ann and Attilio “T” Sellitti)

‘He’s YOUR son, Ann!’,
‘No, he’s YOUR, son, “T”!’
screamed my parents at each other 
denying culpability
for a son too strange 
for that rigid time 
when blending in was 
de rigueur and 
standing out a crime –
as if they could just unwind 
those strands of DNA 
that they’d entwined 
when Dad had patted
Mom’s behind, 
then hopped in bed to… 
never mind.

“He’s YOUR son, Ann!”,
‘No’ he’s YOUR son, T!’
they kept yelling, 
embarrassed again 
at me being me.
Doing things that were
normal as far as I knew,
but not boy enough
for the zeitgeist,
too weird and uncool.
Afraid of my shadow,
playing sports only badly.
No wonder they wondered
how they could have had me.

But deep down they loved me.
Deep down they were proud.
Deep down they knew,
but did not say out loud:
That the boy they’d created
in their moment of  ardor
was a volatile mix
of both mother and father:
See, I hoard things like Dad
and have most of Mom’s fears,
like a dread of the twilight
that can bring me  to tears,
plus Dad’s quickness to anger
and Mom’s frequent dark moods –

I’m THEIR son for certain.
That’s why I’m screwed.