The Innisfree Poetry Journal

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?


Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication