Submerged in my own ponderous house,
the barren azaleas like sinewy old maids
in the yard,
the dead leaf rot underfoot,
moist and soft.

Walking through the museum-pallor
rooms, seeing photos of my parents
half dressed
and younger than I. Their
puritanical innocence.

The blanched patina. We freeze moments,
and they still fade to nothing.
Cherubic babies grown
and in rehab. Young lovers
wither and go gaunt, fighting

debt and failing fidelity.
What doesn’t fade is in their eyes:
the precocious sheen,
the deep belief that their lives will
work out all right, whatever that means.

Like jade embedded in eroding limestone.

I am older than the ghosts of my
parents, and am ruddying
in violent spasms,
a dying, gasping fish
plucked clean from the pond.