Family Tree

How odd it is,

this demented

dance back to

the root of all

Our misery.

A poisoned family

Tree, rotten fruit

Hanging on by a string

like my cousin’s fingers

in the door, or the scent

Of small houses

in South Texas,

where the heat ate

its way in, while

the devil ate its way

Out .

We’re connected–you see–

Cursed abundantly,

generationally, like

slapping a stop sign

Only to catch the ring

On your finger,

The literal art of losing

A part of yourself

in the process

Of trying to lose

it all.

But what’s worse

is being the scribe

And knowing too

much and the tedious

task of never

Wearing the knowing,

like a crown,

lest it break

my neck.