Ancestors

My left knee holds a white coffin
Small and new
And the memory of the other baby who lived
But wasn’t right.
My shoulders house a pale boy
Serving mass
The day his mother died.
Grief has gripped my wrists
Twisted my spleen.
Unwept anger
Fills up my inner ear.

I am dermis deep
With all who have made me.
Synaptic secrets
Passed along marrow and vein.
Ancestral debris creeps up my thigh
I cannot scratch it out
I stretch and sweat and scream
But nothing shifts.

As children
Our supple soul absorbs
The unsobbed stories
Looming over us.
Stockholmed in our seemingly safe homes
We knock against blocks hidden deep inside.
The unspoken things
Incurable
Hum around our throats
Stunt our growth
In a swarm of frozen tears.

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