First memories are like artifacts 
dug up from a sandbox cats have used.
A lover once told me she remembered
standing in her crib wanting to tell
her mother about her loaded diaper
before she learned how to talk.
I was in awe, for I am a blank slate
before my brain’s silent film of me
at 4 sliding out from under a table
to look up women’s dresses.
                                                    The reel
starts there and spins out snatches
of scenes where blood spurts forth
and hands are rung and baby brother
almost dies. Is that me I see at 5 riding
on the running board of Uncle Breezy’s
‘47 Ford or hiding in the bathtub
with Aunty when a tornado comes near?
But ah!  Here I am at 6, a boy who goes
into the dark of his First Confession
and confesses that he likes to tell lies.