The Father of Starlet and Angel

I didn’t choose to take
The kittenish wisp I took.
She had an earthy look
So I stashed her underground.
I was hungry, so I chewed the meat of her pigtail.
My creators made me taste this food
It was Daddy’s fault,
He turned me to the unripe fruit.
He thwarted my search for a miniature mother
With his bruising stares and dirty dares.
But my other father,
With his white collared cross,
Taught me to pray to immaculacy.
He thumbed shut wounds with steepled hands
And talked of a clean father.
One who suckled sons
And hung them on crown-like thorns to dry.
When I met this new one,
He spoke of daughters too.
He buried my boyhood in water
And fed me bread til I said ‘I do.’
And I did, with the help of another one,
One who made cartoons of lace.
And every image was a little girl
With a coltish face and a welcoming curl.
I melted in this pink blitzkrieg,
And was doomed to the swings and the slide.
I slid back home with a gift-wrapped prize
And my four fathers rolled their eyes and winked.
At their shrine I offered up the guilt,
For I do not take what isn’t mine.