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
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