tendril of family names
branching out into the striated past
constant rhizomatic search
you dig and
you dig and you
dig deep into the bone of history
the spade glances off something hard
and resolute, all that force returns
to the unsteadied hand
you scrape away the top layer of dirt
and what is revealed is everything
you did not know
the past is a hidden country,
let’s say, the past hides
facts about our families:
this one married their niece,
that one abandoned their post,
this one was an angry drunk,
that one spent the family fortune,
this one died by lightning,
that one drowned in the river
under mysterious circumstances.
all of them had reasons
too complicated to write down—
the answers buried deeper
than you dare to dig.
