Family History

The blades shudder against the concrete, seeking something soft to butcher.
We long to make a lasting mark. Trimmed hedges and gently shaped sand.
A legacy of ice filled cups and swollen stomachs; the pages of your family
written cold and yellowing in a cellar. 
Who will maintain this mess of skin?
Who will shape the glass blades of your past? An old man
squatting on the sidewalk, tending his shrinking plot with garden shears. 
Can we work with the weeds? 
Can we stop fighting natural symmetry, the grooves
carved by wind and winter. The sinking
proof the sun rose again. The rising evidence it set.
Pick me, pluck me, rake me. Arrange me in a vase with water. 
Bring me inside and ensure my demise. 
What a beautiful centrepiece I make. What a rotting
heap of once living sinew. Keep me connected.
Dirt to core to dirt again. The roots
stretch further in stillness.

Conyer Clayton