Growing up, my father
pinned his best wisdom
to my heart—to never
work inside the offices
that had nearly killed
him
at dinner
you played audience
to that same advice
your eyes seeming
so much wider after
but how our hands grew slack
enough to drop the hands
they carried
how we took off with
the lesson while leaving
behind the sentiment
I feel we have been
courting supplication.
An unbecoming thing,
not a game we knew
driving to music
with my hands
making a home
in you hair
or on our birthdays
when we were busy
renouncing the advancing world
for the strange honesty of one another
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