Hereditary

In the Polaroid, the man is leaning hard

against a fence he probably built himself.

His face is blurred by sun and silver-guard,

a ghost left on a dusty basement shelf.

Today, the light is trapped in humid lines.

The traffic is a stalled and iron sea.

I watch my hands—the way the tendon shines,

the way the knuckles rise up, blunt and free.

The skin is pulled into those bloodless ridges,

that same white-knuckle lock upon the wheel.

We spend our lives building all the bridges

only to find we’re made of his same steel.