Mother—
Am I poison to our family?
I'm still lost to indecision
so my tongue cuts, agitated—
injures you without haste
Yet there is not a single palatable excuse
and then cowering on every return flight
I wonder:
how am I so forgiving of everyone but you and me?
where might I be your catalpa tree?

Father—
Am I toxic to this family?
Like the bright blue exhaust
blooming from your old Ford
parked on stiff gravel in late November
(the revealing snap of cold)
Instinctively, you know not to inhale
until the fumes dissolve
I ask:
how long before the sharpest hurts fade?
have you ever felt this weightless?

Brother—
Am I worthy of our family?
Or of love at all?
There were nights when I struck my cheeks numb
just to fall asleep
Such a brokenness I no longer comprehend
It never felt like strength
and yet:
did I not breathe into the pain?
or, does my heart flex in vain?

Caleb—
You mean only love for each of them
but these years you have been away
your intent was drenched in the foul tradition
of a self-hating American

There is such a heavy symmetry
to keeping them all at arm’s length
or fearing what harm you could do
if the good things don’t move back
eventually