I saw the baby book my mom made for me once.
Such a sweet baby I saw in the pictures!
Black and white, but with curly blonde hair.
Hiding in the cupboard, riding on my ketchup bottle.
Smiling and happy, with lively eyes.
Sure that the bad ones couldn't get him.
A baby protected by his parents.
I remember another baby book.
Filled with instant pictures, dull and bright colors.
Snapped in haste, a fat 11 year old on his back.
Naked, eyes flat and dull, legs spread wide.
Like a baby, but doing things babies don't do
In front of cameras. So sad, but trying
To please the person holding the camera.
Surely this person loved him, told him so,
Just asked small things. And told him he
Was beautiful! His little baby. His son.
And the person would be his daddy and so proud of him!
Many photos, more than when he was a real baby.
Doing this, touching that, sucking here, showing there.
Being changed (what he called it), being cleaned.
Always being called "my baby," "my darling," "my pretty one."
Was it really so bad? Give him this and he'll
love me forever? Be my daddy? Was it so wrong
To want a daddy? To be hugged, held, kissed?
To be special? No matter how embarassing, he'd
Never lie to me, never hurt me, never show them to anyone.
Only to me, to us, his book, our secret.
Didn't my Mom have a baby book too?
Now I see that book grown up.
There were no real pictures, only instant ones.
Why do the perverts always have Polaroids?
I remember the sad, dead eyes and I compare them
To the laughing eyes of the little baby.
I want to be that innocent again, sure that the
World was full of good people who wouldn't lie,
Cheat, steal, hurt.
I want a baby book to be so, instead of a
Testament to a lonely, desperate boy
Who needed a daddy, and got a picture book of
Sad, dead eyes on every page
Looking for a daddy who wasn't there.