Here, a gathering of familiar strangers pass
through the mirrors of their own thwarted
expectations of family.
It seems you know them, their faces you could trace
with your fingers in the air, their laughter
like chords of a remembered song,
their tears never quite revealing the discordant
notes they hear, only that it is not the song
their hearts require.
We read into each other’s hieroglyphs
stories of our own deficiencies,
bridges not quite meeting a faraway shore
where the bitter and the benevolent live together
in nominal peace, the truth and its absence
seeming equally credible.
Here is where the book falls open to the place
we always return as a reminder of what binds us
and what draws us apart.