Sunday, June 19, 2011

lineage

I know destiny like this place knows destiny.
In the barest hours of every morning,
light chisels shapes in
my kitchen's clay of dark.
A few lines of chair,
a crescent of teakettle,
a block of oven.
I am twenty-six years old.

It is quiet. I live alone.
I will take a place at the table
before dawn exists and gaze
through the nakedness of the moment.
Day half-discovered:
Maybe an errand here,
an assignment there.
I keep few friends.
I will work and be hungry
and then tired.
The rest is chance.

Except one thing.
I know where I come from.
I am twenty-six years old,
a son and brother of survivors.
I live alone, but I am never
alone. Everything's covered,
not lit, by a pale film of
luminescence. The sun will arrive.
This moment arrives. Everything rises
and reveals itself. Every day I rise

and become my father,
as he became his:
we breakers of bread,
witnesses to history.

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