Thursday, July 13, 1995


I threw out my dead mother's 
false teeth today, 
and I realized for the first time  
that I'll never be who I was 
before my parents died 
as if it were something 
I could ever get back to. 
Imagine death saying that. 
I'll get back to you. 
Say it three times.
Say it until it coats the tongue 
with consonants that will bleed 
into the printer while you sleep. 
I dreamt my father brought me stories. 
These words, my soul inheritance, 
my progeny.

13 July 1995
rev. slightly 17 Nov 2015

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