This vessel, me
is not just made of me
but holds within its space
the ghosts of others known.
As I the road drive down
I look upon my hands
and there is Dad clutching the wheel,
leading me to where he might have gone.
The hands are strangely his,
but not the skin, it’s tissue thin,
as if my mother had entered me
and when she left,
her skin, more than by genes
stayed on my father’s flesh.
And what of mirrors?
When I look, do I see me?
Or do I see my brother,
forcing motions that I swear are mine,
or the clothes of friends
that in my brain have burned
my idea of style.
And speech?
I hear my wife
her words and phrases
fill my dictionary
so much a part of me,
I am as one with them.
