We’ve become a family
memories stacked like coins
behind our eyes,
and I can only hear
my father speak the same stories
so many times.
Sitting at dinner under bright lights,
the outside world so dark
it’s like the house’s wrapped in black tape,
nothing visible from without,
only the inner stuff,
only the insular heat of our private experiences
is allowed to escape into the bright wonder
of the room.
Here, beneath the lights, we,
this family of ours, these hearts, these hands,
these wandering eyes, these broken souls, of ours,
panic like mystics at the dawn of science,
learning, for the first time,
what it means to be fraudulent
in our own skin.
Written at 8:58 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, after a pleasant family dinner.