Genetics
Jessica Mehta
My mother told me I was a sociopath
because You don’t like touching, unable
to imagine it was her musky skin,
dust-dry lips that made me shrink.
She’d slap my head and demand
kisses on lips—even in Kindergarten
I had a fathoming
of what incest was. Burned something
fierce when I spiraled my father’s
oiled hair into two spikes
and said, I’m making you
horny. How does a child know
such things, isn’t shame
learned or is it something seedy
and genetic? Like my mandibular
tori, bone growths
filling my mouth like cement, but still
unable to stop the fattening
and the disgraces falling out.