inheritance

after José Olivarez

the label was always rubbed off. in pockets and purses,
thumb-sized nesting dolls hid nubs the children found
by smell. mentholated trails like winter sweat.
                          this mint stub

came from strip mall oriental marts and ran
across foreheads, into temples, under nostrils, until
it ran out and the father ran back for more. 薄荷
                                    chased after sighs

and closed eyes. it knocked when the house grew
hungry, the phone card, parched. when they sat
on the thirdhand couch, each wearing four coats,
                                             when they slept

the same way and had to get up. it followed
the father up smokestacks, his fear of heights
falling like seasoning over tv dinners as
                                                           wheel of fortune

spun. the kids grew up, the marts closed down, phones froze
faces as voices. they learned to stuff pockets with lottery tickets,
but even with all their good english, the kids could never
                                                                          solve the puzzle.