Madness came naturally to me
less handed down
than breathed up
from the cellar of our
family homestead

Through the wired-jaw register
Bedlam called from below,
where my great-grandmother’s canning
was left to cloud and molder
in little glass jars on the dirt floor-
experiments in neglect,
after she was hauled away
to the institution to rot.
The cans and their creator
eventually both forgetting
the brilliant thumbprint
of the handsy sun.

After my great-grandmother,
the next generations
in our family were all given
limbs and brains
that jigged oddly,
jerked on tightly strung lines
of disability and disorders.

And the babel of my lunatic ancestors
is still bouncing off the walls
of the dark foundation I’m built on,
like an evil incantation
that turns on the caster
who tries to send it out into the world.

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April 1, 2021

This poem is fabulous!

April 1, 2021

This was and is fantabulous.  I like the handsy sun a lot.  Honestly, he should wear gloves on some days.