Is It Hereditary, Father?

 they shall say no more, The fathers have eaten a sour grape, and the children’s teeth are set on edge. But every one shall die for his own iniquity…

Is it hereditary, father?
That we eat sour grapes?

Am I you? I need to write it down
Are my teeth are set on edge?

I blame you for our flare of flesh
For loving the high & imperious sun

I blame you for pride and vigor
The boob tube and sofa set rigor

I’ll tell you I don’t remember Kansas
Basement days or your loaded shotgun

The I-love-everyone-life-is-great-days
Your fists and arms in a fury of rage

I am damn sick of worrying I’m sick like you
Tell me I’m not; that these teeth are my own

after Carolyn Forche’s The Morning Baking