Mother’s Amnesia

What’s this? my mother exclaimed.
I seem to have a child attached to my bosom.
And indeed I was attached there.
A nipple is one of the best magnets, I’m afraid.
Naturally, my lips were as blue as a rifle barrel.
“A belief in all-pervading spiritual agencies seems to be universal.”
A famous thinker said that while she was
Directing traffic at a busy intersection.
Blessings are not gifts to us, the street chant went.
Come to find out I was playing with primordial
Building blocks on the cement floor.
What’s this? my mother inquired.
It was a sort of leaning tower on top
Of which I placed a lonely doll.
The doll’s eyes were closed and some stuffing
Was coming out all over the steak knives.
I seem to have hired an architect, she said.
A hand is what an architect uses to trace his dreams.
Obviously, I was born without them.
All of the blocks had tooth marks – or were they fang marks?
That brief moment when the TV tube is warming up,
That’s all I remember of my childhood.
What’s this? my mother wanted to know.
It was the first she’d heard of the notion.
But then again, her famous Soap was on,
The one where every character is in a coma.