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