Lingerie

At times, I detested you growing up.
As if my conscience had been nabbed
from remembering us, twined
in a corner of the yard, in summers -
tarrying sustenance of any kind -
in winters, the breakers of spring.
Your windows, once glazed
with poop pictures,
I drew for you-now with
spunky whites,laced with black and blue
unfit for scoping, through my hands.
Hands from whose shell, the oysters
have stepped out - as if toe to toe,
You still had bigger steps to take.
And now there is this void, of ineptitude-
You never talk. You only ask.
But I promise,
I will find something for us to do