my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)

my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)

are not those of making: they are ones of things made:

they are ones who know not of marking but of scars

from hammers and markings from yellow paints

they know not of Hamlet's plight or Gatsby's love -

instead they know only of 26 letters and no more

their son's and brother's are ones that reach and shove

the stains of unknowingness in their leaking pores

instead my mother and father and sisters live still

on the tile floors and torn-up carpets they've made

and though i find their learnings weak and shrill,

i pray they keep their hands molding in the shades

of maple trees where letters are so afar

from my mother father and sisters (dear as they are)