Mothers and Fathers

One of my parents was a flaming torch, the other a used pillow. 
One was a fish net, the other a minnow.

In the night I’d wake to a moan and the faint smell of perfume.
One of my parents was a gun toy, the other an old barrette.
The symbols tattooed on my chest is the one for a gecko devouring pest.

One of my parents I trimmed, the other I mopped.
In the revolving door of my life, one struggled to stay and one pushed the wrong way.
Thus, my troubled childhood, my endless blinking.

One was a hand, the other a choke.
How they amused each other.
One was an ocean, the other a whale.  

I was ashamed of not drowning, embarrassed I couldn’t sink.  
I was a girl calling across the dessert to a stream she could never reach.