Luckiest Ancestors

The cover songs that everybody knows

Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!

I’m so happy you’re here.

Each of these Sunday poems center loosely around a tarot card, and this week we’re checking in with the Sun.

This card reminds me that my world can expand at any time I choose.

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Special announcement:

Did you know I self-published a poetry collection?

Give It A Home is a memoir made up of 100 sonnets written over the course of a year in the life of a 30-something woman struggling to cope with change, loss, and aging.

Click below to get your deluxe copy, hand-packed and signed by the author, shipped for free, and bundled with a cute sticker, all for just $16.99:

SMALL SCOOP
 
Without knowing, I saved somebody’s life. 
I saw a girl get hurt: I scooped her up,
I gave her books, and one long, sharpened knife,
Agreed with her that her family sucks. 
 
I told her not to listen to critics
Unless she wants a life like critics lead.
I shooed away the folks who would insist
That her body was only made to breed. 
 
We talked about how love should not frighten
With threats of absence, nor hands that control.
No one had ever shared the truth with her
About how hurt we get by gender roles. 
 
The girl’s gonna be fine. I saw to that.
She’s out gathering feathers for her cap. 

LUCKIEST ANCESTORS
 
We come from our luckiest ancestors:
The ones who did not trip on exposed roots,
Who thought to put a lock upon the door,
As well as a small window to look through. 
 
We traveled down long strands of DNA:
Hand over hand, feet firm upon the rungs,
We clambered, G and T and C and A,
To form the bodies that we would become. 
 
We are the studio remix of those
Who looked both ways before they crossed the street,
The cover songs that everybody knows
Because of how they use the old-school beats. 
 
A penny on the street catches your eye:
The year is nineteen-hundred-twenty-five. 

CURVE
 
“Press bone-arch into place. Yes, feet can curve.
You could be beautiful, if you would try. 
Your girl-body came to this earth to serve:
A single-purpose tool, a sharpened knife.
 
A fresh, green stem must split itself open
To yield the coming leaf that yearns to breathe.
It won’t resist, in tribute to someone
Who, years before, gifted their own release.”
 
I rode in, stormed the gates, and saved myself:
A future version, glittering in sun,
Who came back with ironclad mental health
To coalesce the versions still-so-young. 
 
Foot-binding does the job it seeks to do.
Babe, it doesn’t work for me, or for you.

Do you like watching live poetry? Check out my podcast!

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