What do you do when family closes in?
Yellow wallpaper scratchings,
second-hand personality clashes
and patience itches threadbare
in a week shared?
What do you say when a father claims
you are his only friend
with more than thirty years between
that you understand him better than her?
What does he mean
when he says he can control his dreams,
fly backwards into time
spinning the hands counterclockunwise?
He is always waiting to tell you
how the world will end.
What do you do with your memory?
A diagram your father drew for you,
a picture of a marriage
inevitably falling apart
two lovers, their spheres of interest
papers and diapers,
pushing each other
away from one and another?
What will your father, your mother do
when the children leave
them all that empty white space between
and they don't remember what words to use?