My father’s fingers touch my lips
his enraged pensiveness: my hand

My mother’s feet halt me on the road
her shamed acquiescence: my legs

She’s dead for years
he much longer
but all their regrets are stirring in me now
cracking the bones of my spirit
with their insistent longings

I refuse them by calling their names: James! Frances!
your regrets are your own
leave me to mine

Drunk years, lost children

My regrets are not without gesture
but I’ll find my own.
 

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