My father’s fingers touch my lips
his enraged pensiveness: my hand
My mother’s feet halt me on the road
her shamed acquiescence: my legs
She’s dead for years
he much longer
but all their regrets are stirring in me now
cracking the bones of my spirit
with their insistent longings
I refuse them by calling their names: James! Frances!
your regrets are your own
leave me to mine
Drunk years, lost children
My regrets are not without gesture
but I’ll find my own.