Those Who Came Before

Mother,
my father, ancestor, 
I didn’t ask you for 
these trophies of your 
passing; 

In the distant 
river, I caught 
those city-skeletons
in netted caravans;

Rising,
I ran and cowered 
Away into the mountain’s 
berry vines; 

I heard your 
wither wind coming, 
so cold and eager 
to tell your children 
What the bones 
say.

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