Isotope
Papa, I’m your half-life: at 45,
not quite the age you were
when I was born. And there you are,
still at the head of the table, like Hydrogen
editing the Periodicals. That’s me, over on
the edge, beyond the birthday cake, trying to
keep my elbows at my side. This is where
the new Elements are added on, like wooden
leaves for extra dinner guests. The numbers
on the placemats are fading, the soup spoons
seem to be migrate. The conversation is charged,
it binds, then decays. Please pass the salt, Papa,
I think I need the ions on my tongue.