Everything about this place is warmer
and I do not know what to do
with my voice.
In Massachusetts,
people are afraid to talk about my father.
His name slips out at the dinner table
and everyone stares
into their lasagna.
He does not ask about me.
I am told he was here
a few days before I arrived, but my blood
is so far away from his blood,
that my body cannot feel the remnants
of his presence.
I am not five years old
and I no longer know how to be tied
to people. I leave
everyone.
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