Summer’s unbothered streetlights, bitten legs.
In this scene, it’s impolite to say mother, father; to say
this is what will be and cross-legged
find your fifty-seven tales, enact them
to faces who never touched your hair
that lives in the weavings of this rug.
You haven’t seen yet where my ears point
behind cheekbones: the less you retain yourself,
the more I claim you. This passing down must be prophetic.
Tacky brown curtains and mustache-less jobs
I caught through the young person’s worries of older opinions.
The edema of your undereye I missed.
Love me again, not as you would a child,
but a rendition of your Sundays.
Eyebrows and landmarks that festered this gap are all
I can’t tell you.
