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Lineage
February 17, 2015
Ours has been creased
and for want of an iron,
we play with the folds
until frays trap our hands outside our bones.
Ours is leaking sap
like the oaks out front.
Do they know that they are martyrs?
Do we know that we are not?
Ours will be sheathed
and rust fast upon our souls.
May we solder and whisper
enough before it crusts our blood—
to preserve our holy creases
in the fabric of our own.
© Heather W., No., Brunswick, NJ
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This piece addresses the pains of divorce and the fear that the mistakes of your parents are immutably ingrained in you as well.