A high school yearbook with frayed spine
marks the center of our shared table.
Memories fill the gaps in conversation
Some come with long shamed shadows
that lose their stabbing blackness
beneath the spinning light
of a mirrored ball.
I never knew your father drank...
My mother was suicidal...
Leave It To Beaver times and all
Each of us played the parts, I guess
Like repentent parishioners we confess
in a circular fashion
no need of curtains to hide the flaws
any more - we've come of age
Revelations turn magic solvent
and melt away ancient armor
We were all the same.
Veritas liberabit vos