The graph is full of interesting men

Its taken sinew strings to make me
governess, house keeper, counter girl, seamstress, domestic -
these I inherit on a hand drawn family tree.

Ink according,
the women in my family were births, deaths, marriages and chain links.

The men’s names are ribboned; bumptious Austin, wayward Walker, hard working Northam, fearsome Flack -

they acrobat zoetrope narratives,
climbing through windows, catching boats, planting forests, aiming fireworks at pig pens.

Their women are births, deaths, marriages and static. They stare out from photos inscrutably inscrutable.

Mainly I don’t dream, but sometimes before I’ve opened my eyelids someone’s hands teach me paper doll strings,
the safety edged scissors tuck hem, ankles, feet,

a cacophony of confetti, the cut outs leave links,
I catch bits, pocket blank little love letters.

I want to know where the marks were made, with what weight,
or if it was just, scissors meet paper, a bicycle brakeless on a hill.

Fold me in, with our faces cell close, tell me,
what was it like to see fire become boring, what did you decide was the point, did you trust your children to tell things.

I saw a play, which said, imagine you are either
the apex of the arrow of your tribe,
or a thread of a river ending

and I don’t even know why this matters, or if I get it,
other than, grave-plots get re-consecrated every century and you live as long as genetics and narrative.

This orchard chest is a gift from Dorothy,
this lung has the rhythm of Jean, the stomach lift of standing on cliffs and wanting to jump without suicide is a thin gold ring from Jane.

Elsie, cracked hinges, wrote notes to the future, signed permission papers said ‘I make mistakes, they rust. I paid for it.'

Well, I make mistakes, I keep them shiny, make mistake on top of error on top of should have learnt this and claim it’s chic. I pinch my cheeks, ink on button lips, say, its vintage isn’t it.