Moskie

So I was going through my old writings from high school and college... and you know what? I'm still proud of them. Here's one. Hell, I might post some more (or... write more? heaven forbid...)


Heredity

My mother hands me a picture,
brown and faded,
its subject a young boy,
no more than ten years old.
He is me.
The hair,
the eyes,
the expression.
“I don’t remember this picture.”
She turns the photo over:
Werner Lilling, my grandfather, 1922.
I slowly flip the picture back
to scan it again,
revealing the same reflection as before.

I begin to wonder how inescapable it is,
if at all.
Or perhaps it was,
but I’ve missed my chance,
and now I’m left waving my arms
on a tight-rope called destiny.

When I cough my mother’s cough,
I wonder whether I’ll share her fate.
I try to keep the phlegm down,
but I sense its persistence is too cunning.

I curse my father’s curses,
after acting out one of
his trademark blunders.
I close my eyes
and see myself mirroring
the fabled suicide attempt
I’ve heard tight-lipped stories about.

It frightens me,
how I appreciate everything they’ve done,
but still try to avoid
everything they’ve become.

I settle that either there’s nothing I can do,
Or I’m already doing it,
Since it’s already determined
whether my life is already determined, so
I clear my throat,
Clean up the mess I’ve made,
And go on with my day.

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Greetings and salutations.