Your childhood

I like your childhood
you cooked pipis
on the beach
on an old metal sheet

You rowed through
estuaries picking
peaches from
heavy branches

It was filled with
religious fervour -
you clapped as you
sang
you prayed before you
ate

Your mother
crocheted bright
blankets to wrap
you at night
and your ancestors'
eyes followed you
as   you ran down
the darkened hall.

The sea slapped you
like a midwife
when you leapt
off the wharf
and everyone at
your school
was your cousin.

I don't like how you
shot waxeyes with
slug guns

I don't like how
your father ate so
many poached eggs
that his heart burst
like a pierced yoke

You don't like how
your brother hung you
from the 2 nd floor window
by the ankles,
but I think it's
funny.

I like your childhood.
You punted through
the mangroves
catching flounder
and having adventures
from an Arthur Ransome
book I never read.