Photo by Natalya Letunova via Unsplash
I look to the horizon, your face, sweet and lovely, hangs with the willows. Dipping deep, deep into the bank. Ruddy marshes and colorful birds unfurl, reaching for where you rest… Darling, gone with the rolling clouds, the gentle southern breeze, leaving behind a legacy, a duty to settle down…
To the north you go… flying like the migrating birds of black and gray, opposing their paths as you turn your back to the equator. We the birds spurned, fly away from us now, from your past, your blood soaked roots. Away from Legacy… bodies in the backyard, confederate skeletons you hide in your closet. Who are you now, Montreal claimed you without knowing what you are…
Does the snow stick to your monogrammed mahogany bow, does it weigh down your teased hair, or does it drown your sensibilities…? Do you even remember the secret you learned from your Momma, how to make a county winning apple pie…? Does the word “Momma” stick to your mouth, foreign and forgotten?
Do you wake up… middle of the night, with another week having passed you by. Do you answer on the first ring, and make up a pastor-sounding name…? Do you wake up, suffocating, from the blood on your ancestors hands…? Can you see it now, while on your knees, hoping that the weight of ancestral sin doesn’t crush you…
You find forgiveness in the unmarked tombstones, can’t find delusion in the frilly bows… All that was left for you was a packed suitcase.
