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?

Michael Lauchlan’s poems have landed in many publications including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Harpur Palate, Sugar House Review, and Poetry Ireland. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave., from WSU Press.