Returning the favor

Dark glass littered on the carpet
like mines.  They bite deep;
you watch where you step.
Your father gave you bits of jade,
but you cut your foot.

Run around an old dirt track.
Remember mother’s turntable,
the jazz trumpets, the drummer
who slapped her while you watched
from a fort you built in your room.

You see her at the finish line.
She rubs a flask in her coat pocket.
You might be a genie, but your bra
is torn and it smells like a cheap cigar.

I’m a fish and I swim in circles,
the son you never wanted.
You shake, your bones
the dull little rhythm of a tambourine.

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