My Genealogy

What a sorrowful bunch they were,
picked out by fate for slaughter,
scattering sons into the wind—
not one begot a daughter!

A sister might help soothe a scar
or half rub out a mark.
For their wives—only lonesome boys
stunned by the sudden dark.

Each time they saw their Mother leave
so burdened with her woes.
Each time they saw her bringing home
a bundle of his clothes.

The Generations drifted West
wherever that would be—
New York at first, Wisconsin next,
and far to a rolling sea.

They lost each other, lost their way,
lost their hopes, and worse—
a mother lost to a dangling rope,
and never an end to the curse.

They lost their lives just barely reared,
left wives and babes alone—
to lay within a pauper’s grave
and sleep without a stone.

So when my turn had come at last,
I saw the pattern clear—
in marriage, home, and babies born,
I felt the chill of fear.

I saved myself. I never wed—
I always slipped the hold.
I walked this land from hill to sea,
and now, they say, I’m old.

I walked this land from hill to sea
and taught not one to hear—
the laughing way a river talks
at dusk with a river near.

In wilderness, a secret place,
I hailed forth none to show
how gilded was the fir tree’s crown
in day’s last waning glow.

On cliffs above the rolling sea,
the crashing waves and spray—
none did follow my pointing hand
to myriad shades of gray.

The only voice beyond the pane
is lash of wind and rain.
The only one that calls my name
is creak of the weather vane.

I saved myself. I broke the curse.
I never had a son.
There’s none to follow my pointing hand.
My god what have I done.