Family Ties

I am my mother in the morning.

Exuberant and full of bubbling joy as though someone

Dipped their hand into a crisp, cold river

And stolen the flashing reflection of the sun.

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I am my grandmother in the middle of the day,

Leaning toward the rumbling gossip,

Earthquakes on the lips of my friends and eruptions

Into the hum-drum of an ordinary life.

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And I am my father at night. Silent. Sombre.

I am drained from the day and my reflection looks sad,

Haunted in a way that the eyes betray.

Broken and standing pieced together by luck and grit.

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Who am I then when the sun begins to set?

Who am I in those weak moments between day and night?

I'd dip my fingers into magma for the sliver of an answer.

Instead, I stand quietly and watch the red slip into blue.

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And who am I at the witching hour and moonrise?

I am the melancholic wanderings off a fog that gives an air of archaism

And the red light of night fades like forgotten blood beneath my nails

But the question remains.

"Who am I at sunset?"

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