Casting Aside Eden
Buried above my ancestors,
I kept their stories; they
dreamed my future,
necromanced life through
my veins, into my two hands,
cupped around a crescent of soil.
That was before I traded
the horizon for the perfect shingles
of this new neighborhood: carved
from the wild; a bird shape
pulled from a block of wood.
Corn and wheat were sown to concrete.
Plowshares stagnated to flowerbeds.
Horses sold to memory.
I set my family's feet North.
Unhinged the moon, drug it
behind our caravan.
I hung it crooked in the sky
above my prefab roof, believing
I would hold its meaning as I
would all my ancestral stories.
Falling upon opiate grasses,
I was locust, sated- noticing
neither the moon nor my history
as they faded like the shrinking
calluses on my hands.
Indigo Moor
Posted over on Main Street Rag
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