Archeology

I released my history. Those parts untold, 

burned in the courthouse fire, hidden in

the by-and-by, tossed towards the yonder.

Folded it all up, swallowed in the clay. 

Wind-gathered and flung each spring:

the plough and drum, the sunken ship.

Let wind soften stone and moss cover it.

Let dates linger like mile markers to here.

Calico and gold, earth-gone, river-washed.

You dream makers, hidden in my genome.

You carried my essence, bridled my days

with work, worry, and hope for a harvest.

You, who hurried to the ship, ran from the

noose, stood amazed at the virgin forest.

Such venturing set me down the blacktop.

All the felled and free, hands of dirt and ash.

All the unremarkable, with their own saints.

Households of pickers and bedroom makers.

Lost, lost the experience of getting here.

Exile, boot to the gut, muddy hem, blood of

childbirth, old tribes, and languages gone.

My body is a midden heap of moments:

The wedding hymn, the imperfect verse,

long shadows cast from nights of first love.

I gave them all up, carried what I could,

unlatched the safe where the secrets lay,

found only faded ink and vessels of earth