Father of gunmetal, fingers and sap
kneeling to the blood-red of our faces
from my formaldehyde Grandfather,
in the black elms, a crown of sun pencils
on white skin, now the eyes I find of the lagoon
were treed in artichoke; father’s eyes are mine,
the shore is from the foolish matriarch, babushka’s daughter
Occam’s razor had slit feet: bloodlines cannot drown us
from ancestor or ancestress to become their very worst.
Sand-thrown, gallows cripple upon the neck
the eyes that hanged upon father’s head,
into the oak’s edge of wasteland knees
creaking and cracking to a child of stone,
less moonlight on the prey,
the swoon its death will bring, gripping no sea to swim
or ankle to grab quaked with sparred skins; steppes void
in ox eyes, a ghost of dead men,
what fools we must be to believe
that these things can change.
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Written for the dVerse prompt. I chose prompt 1.