the pain of the sheep

They said in the news that AI figured out pain in sheep,
and I can remember how dad came to my room before sleep
at the times when noone could figure out someone's pain from their
eyes, the plastic flowers were blossoming and one could wear
a mini skirt and not be considered a whore, be clean-shaven and
not be considered skin-head, as we've all been at nineties like that.
We met
at the fuggy stair flight, each night same stairs,
and never spoke of anything straightforward as
it was strictly prohibited to speak straight
about fucking whatever in nineteen ninety eight.
Summer dust, poplar wool thick on ground burnt with ligh-
ters, then the neighbour was shot in his bedroom below my
bedroom. And I found him in Wikipedia in 15 years as a member
of the biggest organized crime group – loads of stuff I remember.
All these happened when dad entered my room right before sleep,
can't remember why, and did he say a word or just stayed silently
there,
and I almost cannot remember his voice or face ever since.
It happened when we burnt to blond our hair
with Olya, when we cut to knee-breeches the flared jeans,
when it felt awkward coming to parents any closer than
a forward reach for a shoulder clap in linear span.
One can
not come out to the river-bank and walk back to the creek, that
is not allowed – you either remember and swim or swim and forget.
Mom also enters the room and stays in the doors on dad's side
while I'm growing up and away, considering suicide,
thinking that nothing is gonna end, or at least will begin again.
Nothing was deemed mortal at all back then,
when people were putting the 2l jar of water next to
TV, waiting for it to turn into water of life (sacred mesto),
the taste of menthol cigarettes, the smell of gone bad sauerkraut.
I remember somehow all that shit, but how their voices sound
I do not.
It's been a long and a lot.
Two figures dissolving in the doors of my room, so be it, no pain.
I'll forget you both to the bone one day,
and then reinvent
again.