living under the light

some days i can't but crouch over
the spitting image of my mother hovering
over the kitchen table, cigarette in long fingers,
Another one burnt out in the ashtray.

"Even is never really even, is it?"
I ask, but later forget her answer

i'm no good at telling fortunes for the future,
though i know exactly where you came from (exactly)
somedays you can't but remember your father on the grey couch
saying "you're a fool," and you know you live your life that way
you look just like him (spitting)
but even is never really even, is it?

and as the day fades to night and the shadow of the lace curtains in our kitchen drapes itself over my mother's face
and the wind from the open
window in the living room of your childhood house
brushes against your father's ear-we know they live their lives this way