My father's eyes held embers, sudden sparks —
flames consumed him years before I knew or tasted his salt,
poured his grief through my own, as deep and dark as his;
we glared or ignored each other,
neither willing to relinquish ground.
My mother's eyes were oceanic,
tides shifting to and fro,
touching shore and surging away again
just as quickly. I gathered glistening shells
and listened closely to her echoes.
We are products of our environment,
experiments of genetic mutations gone astray,
hybrids formed by both betrayal and faith,
our fragrance diminished by dusk.
We become what we did not dare to dream,
forsaking our wishes for glimpses of dying stars —
we moan, then sigh in resignation, in recognition.
Shards from ancient moments
embedded beneath our flesh are memories
as flaccid as stagnant water, a seething green;
once we were buoyant and boisterous, lustrous as kith and kin,
patient, weary and waiting for an ominous tilt to right ourselves,
to mend the bent structures of our existence.
We inherited this crumbling Sanskrit,
its lexicon long since buried
under shifting sand.
We murmur incoherent sounds
as our heavy hearts bubble and boil,
then wonder why we are misunderstood,
why we cannot grasp logic or reason.
The ache and arch of miles are inconsequential —
we need only mention the impertinent and penitent journey.