Mine and my father’s tired eyes  

meet under the same furrowed brow. 

I extend my mother’s hands  

to greet my friends. 

And I turn her nose when I look away  

from scenes that would make her sick. 

His belt, The Great Mediator,  

now fits around my waist. 

Pull back our lips to show gapped teeth 

(Mine have since been pulled closed). 

Yet, the ulcers in my mother’s gut  

bear her children’s names. 

The score of my achievements is kept religiously  

in the callouses of Dad’s palms. 

Is it like gathering yourself up in your own arms? 

Don’t say I never gave you anything.