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Waking up again
I’ll change the worst recipes of my ancestors
Nov 27, 2020
I have my faults: a shattered bowl,
a wrinkled sheet, knees to my chest,
a skull capped and a face bloody.
I’ve been afraid to touch and talk only
in screams with white teeth that duly shine
like candles. I’ve held the letter
with its wax seal and scripted ink.
It told me where we’ve been
and with whom we’ve slept. A song
of gold coins and sharp swords, and
others with a shrunken army
of papers that rewrite the past.
I’ll change the worst recipes of my ancestors,
grind dirt into dirt, and words into wind,
after I’ve done the hardest things.
© Trapper Markelz 2020
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