1969

Grandmother>Mother>Granddaughter. How trauma and bipolar gets inherited.

1969:

The babe born
Coal hellfire lockets,
Youngblood liar eyes.

Curdle, curdle in my arms.
Your Father’s gap tooth peeking.
Olive martini skin chilled.

My marriage, my divorce:
All you, god damn it.
The hammer, I whack.

Whack, whack, whack.
Why are you home late?
Why are you home at all?

Teenage runaway.

Go ahead, take it.
Take the paint bucket.
Paint your hair deviled green.

Teenage runaway.

Choke, the constriction.
You break the piggy bank.
You steal my breadcrumbs.

Go ahead, take it.
Take the drug money.
Paint your life star-black.

Don’t you dare look back.
Shayne, chained, I am ashamed.

---

1998:

The granddaughter born.
Pale imitation of my mother—
Emma, Youngblood perish.

Selfish, ungrateful, child.

A bit harsh, maybe. I swing.
The star-black, see-sawing.

I got this for you. Here.
A smile. Might the child stay a while?

The smart one, the sugar-cookie sweet one.

Pretty, like me? No—
for not a real Youngblood.

I modeled, I traveled,
my husband was a poet.

But the see-saw, I see it, I foresaw it.

Look: her eyes, the blown, manic pupils.

Mine. Mine. Mine.
Ours. Ours. Ours.

Starry-eyed, starry-night,
star-see-saw black.

Swim with us, swim,
in our lake of madness.