The bathroom mirror shows them to me – not complete
As they were in life, but fragments, an expression,
Nose at a certain angle, hairline retreating. Do my own
Children already notice bits of me clinging
To their reflections? Often, I’ll repeat something
My mother said, shrug like my grandfather,
Talk to myself as I shave the way my father did.
In a cemetery in Louisiana their coffins must have
Collapsed by now beneath the wet soil and clay,
But here they are, inhabiting me, without an invitation.
I frown the way I did at the breakfast table
With the green cover in my parents’ bedroom.
I’d toss back dry toast and orange juice while my father
Made coffee in a percolator. It smelled burnt and sour,
Undrinkable. I hated school and, in the evenings, prowled
Through issues of The National Geographic from the 1930s,
Imagining myself cycling through France, eating sausages
And baguettes, dressed in a thick wool sweater. It didn’t
Work out that way, but my parents and I were used to
Disappointing ourselves and each other. I wash the soap
Off my chin and reach for a towel.