I picture the field where my father buried his father
and I buried my own.
Where we mark with stone what couldn't last.
Then, the field unpictures me.
Mown grass and the manicured end.
When he couldn't keep the past at bay
With first strategy, his garden.
He tried a second.
But can it be called a strategy to drink
until the right eye looks into hell and the left into the self
unnamed?
How anger dismantles a bloodline.
How the son I won't have laughs sometimes.
In the future.
The one where I say, "OK.
This is who I am."