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Updated: Jul 13, 2020
lineage. there’s no escaping tradition. histories drag behind me like so many beaded pearls. my name is your name is the name that knows me, commands me, medicates me, you see—
blood is not thicker than blood mixed with expectation and ether.
we are hooked [up] to this jubilant operation all these -ectomies, self-ectomies ex(or)cisions in the name of survival in the name of joy, in the name of virtue, of some tapestry of souls.
how do you isolate a muscle, or a single woven thread. out of context, what is a daughter? [I do not
remember what it means to be birthed] so conjoined are we, the harmonized that I will tug on your heartstrings and bring myself to weep.
This poem was originally published in Portland Review on June 9, 2020.