What do I remember?
Slippery certainty,
and the solidity of a suckle on a teat;
a slap to snap my mouth out of the attempt to toy with it,
all efforts to draw out milk from mum’s teats yielding nil.
My mum, knowing force-feeding me through a cupped hand could kill,
and deciding to see my survival as a battle of gags and coughs.
The battle of gags and coughs: That is what I remember
