Friday, September 19, 2014

Family Name

What's wrong with us that we don’t marry?
Why have we not had children? “I don’t know," 
I say, lying. Papa raises his rocks glass, 
Parts his lips, eyes glinting, the recrimination
Swallowed instead of spoken. Age spots 
Brown the oft photographed cheeks. A crowd
Of future generations won’t bear 
His name, fading, finally, into the anonymous 
Mash of the unremarkable. 

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