The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Michael Lauchlan

My Parents Leak

through the cadences of grandchildren,

a compression of time that would have

baffled my father, that baffles me

and remains invisible to the young.

So, fruit of sorcery and rain,

spliced genes and some desperate

pruning, a word comes to our lips

containing more than we’ll say

or savor. In all its tendrils, what

term escapes a savage past?

Which can make, like a smile

or a plum, some claim on truth?