I don't believe.

my father saw me first
as a weapon
and then
as an impediment.

my grandfather
with whom I built snowmen
with whom I caught the baseball
and whom I caught smoking on the cement back steps -
he stopped.

my grandfather saw me as a seed
but lost interest in tending the garden
when my bloom didn't take the shape he had anticipated.

the men I loved
crushed me
   scared me
held me
  loved me
hurt me
  would have died for me.

but the fathers I had
left me with no notion
that I was something to be kept.

I watch other men
with their wives
children
and I don't believe.
they are caricatures
  playing a game
illusions in cologne
  holding plastic baby bottles
cradling their women in strong arms
protecting -
loving -
lusting -
but not real.
something missing.

I don't believe.