They do not speak.

They have no need

anymore. I know

their lines: their small

talk jokes; the regrets

and lies. After all,

I wrote their voices

out of air into bone

years and years ago.


Still, they follow me

about the old house,

knocking knick-knacks

to the floor; slapping

the back of my head ;

flicking my ears

in bored reprobance;

and they watch, always

watching, like cats

watch birds darkly

through closed windows,

longing to recapture

the life I left 

behind with them.

(April 2, 2022)

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