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?
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