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requiem
by karen mckinnon

My dead parents follow
me around
still wrapped up
in themselves.
I understood them clearly,
their wounded views
opposing each other,
even down to the dog.

Their childhoods
must have diminished them.
My father craved
recognition, my mother
hid from notice,
told me not
to be so dramatic.

Even though they wore
each other out
they cling to me
in webs of opinion
positions
clogging my own,
stirring the muddied
waters of the present.

Despite themselves
my parents are
immortal.

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