Intergenerational

trauma decants from one

vessel to another. Imagine a long
line of flasks ranged across a dusty

sill. Who set down the first piece? Who
took it up and tipped the liquid into

the mouth of another? Every pour tries
to manage its load of amber without 

disturbing the sediments at the bottom; 
they ripple upward anyway, murky with promise 

and repetition, swollen with char. We can't seem 
to float free. Though we could change the water 

and feed it lavender and rosemary, each seems
as dear as a child we're unwilling to orphan.