sharing blood and chromosomes

does not quantify us

the sum of our elders betrayals.

children born amid tectonic

aftershock

of parents

colliding, mature

into adults often

sunken to our marrow, hungering

affection. we are

thin wafers, convinced

yellow fat jiggles warm

beneath our skin. we are

sick,

empty hands—smelling of collards

with streak o’ lean and cornbread muffins—made fools of us.

neglecting to feast upon

each finger, our body eats of

itself all it can, we

age into skin and hollow bones.

we are feral bluejays now,

untrusting of those with empty

promises for teeth.

or, we are bloody palms, scooping shards

of our selves from the hardwood— blaming

ourselves for our parent’s inconsistencies,

despite us being their last bit of effort.

as our failed math classes and

soft-skulled bastard children

aren’t faults of those who raised us,

we are not the lick of 

flame what annihilated their
teetering houses of straw

and flash paper. we mustn’t bury 

their irreconcilable differences

in the folds of our brains.

much life happens in years spent

a ring on another’s finger—some

holding tight enough to blue

the tips fetid before us kids arrive—

I can’t even recall a time

when my parents were together, I’ve

always had two bedrooms,

always had two suns to orbit.