tyrants

Ancestry

i/
pick your stories/ like
the ripe figs, berries, plucked at the root/
swollen, matured by/
your seasons, in years/
the bloom of your shadow, the sharp new juts of your bones/
Unfamiliar, older, just maybe wiser/
i gather the fruits of your love, labor/
split them down the middle, digest/
the segments, the bitter/
taste,
i learn to love