Wednesday, October 12, 2011
On digging up roots
Plucked from beneath the belly of New England
And etched below my back in brown lines raised red
A northern notch stolen in 1804
A pan-handle, the rivers, the sound and the shore
He asked me that night, as he carved into me:
"If you love it so much, then why did you leave?"
A sorry habit of mine, I realized at the time-
To dig up my own roots, a masochist's crime.
As a sting sears my skin, to my home my mind slips,
So forever you'll rest on the back of the hip
Of this nutmeg-haired, scrimshaw-toothed, forest-eyed baby,
This oak-branch-boned, rusted-red-robin's breast lady.