He Had A Little Sadism In ‘im

He had a little sadism in ‘im.

I know because I have it in me.

And anyway, it’s a form of Love,

if you keep it suppressed,

as he often did.

He didn’t have any sadism in ‘im.

He didn’t have any Love to suppress.

As far as you know, when he beat the cow

with a shovel, that was how he felt.

And certainly not toward you.

He had a little sadism in ‘im.

I could see it behind his feel-steel eyes,

and behind my mother’s liquid submission,

conspiring to sink him within herself,

a loving to total absorption.

He didn’t have any sadism in ‘im,

whatever you feel of your mother’s love,

because even if she conspired in this,

it was only with animal dominance,

which, I suppose, might be related.

Oh, he had a little sadism in ‘im.

I don’t believe this can be escaped,

assuming we model our dads,

because here I am saying again and again,

and partly, for reasons of aggravation:

He had a little sadism in ‘im.