Until by Dana Stamps II

The first things you lose
you don’t notice:
oblivion, a fetus that is part of your mother
until squeezed
into birth from the place pop

loves. Named, you become lower case i.
The law says so,
and you lose oblivion to gain the need to suck,
but will not remember
anything until

a Labrador slobbers on you,
or you see
your father’s shriveled penis
in the bathtub. You lose innocence slowly,
a tricycle becomes a bicycle.

The child eventually becomes the adult
as little i turns into capital I.
The I begins to lust; the lover leaves, or dies:
it’s the same,
loss.

Finally, capital I becomes little it,
a corpse, a thing
others might remember,
until they follow,
and then only God knows, or oblivion again.

This is Home – Anastasio Wrobel