Pride makes for an
unreliable compass.
For centuries, we traversed
oceans far, coaxed by nature’s whim.

Our parents mean well.
They’ve navigated their lives
before us, circled the globe
a time or two.

Whatever seas they’ve sailed
and named? Always
unanswerable questions:
unapproachable leagues
of monsters and sunken treasure,
towers of wild storms and a fool’s calm waters.

Our parents mean well.
They protect their legacy.
When a psychiatrist asks, they
forget to anchor an offspring’s admission
to a behavioral health ward with the memory
that once before, their firstborn had landed
upon a similar disparate shore.

Our parents have their own
stack of devils in their cards. The Hanged Man
at times comes in multiple. Each one tossed
by rough travel, faring well enough that at least
we can chart a course anew, steady ourselves,
look each of us at the same impression and say,
“Here. We explore a new perspective.”