The Heredity of Heartache

Home is where my heart breaks

the hardest,

feeling most like a wheel

spun until it loses its spokes

/

or the carousel

gone topsy turvy,

spilling plastic horses,

laughter blended with screams

until they’re indiscernible noise.

/

All these roads

were once my lifelines,

wrinkles traced like familiar scars

across the palms of my hands,

/

but they’re rearranging now,

digging paths across the front yards

of houses that stood

solemnly watching my progress

from childhood to adulthood,

a funeral procession in reverse

seen through school bus windows.

/

Only now I’m the undertaker,

coming back to mark the ground,

to take measurement

and assess the diminishing pages

kept at the back of the calendar,

/

so many windows dimming their light

under the graying veil.

My mother smoking

another cigarette

with a smile.