Mother,
brought up,
trapped,

between her Irish-Catholic Father
who abused by never caring

and her careless,
Norwegian-Adventist Mother

for whom Mom was,
at best,
a nuisance,

learned a little from
the secret whispers among
the women in the shops and
on her Brooklyn street.

So,

When she heard,

me,

her little eight years son

say he’d met a nice priest
from Saint Mary’s Star of the Sea
on the beach
near our City Island home

she

erupted!

Her bottled volcanic anger
spewing
from her mouth
that had kissed me,

from a Vesuvius
who had been my
soft,
loving
Mommy.

A lava flow of hate:

“You stay away from that god damned fucking priest!”

But it was,

by then,

to late.