There’s Still More

The genogram extracted

so delicately this fractal.

You gave it a cursory

scoff, just an old yarn,

let it go, take a pill,

dream like the dead.

And you have a conniption

when instead I sit lotus-style

in front of this archeological treasure

— fully aware I’ve lost my funding —

the latest evidence of my strange

commitment to heal my lineage.

This type of twisted pattern

slips by at the edges

of family consciousness, yet traps

us with its raging repetitive riptide.

A thirty-year span, and the first

while I was in the womb,

nestled through two coincidentally

congruent funerals. Such an

energetic impact, but glossed over lightly

oh, she died before you were born.

And this exploration stings,

the pain of self-reflection

so deep I ask myself:

is this a good day to die?

I cannot approach that gate

gladly today so I sit

with all the gaping wounds

I’ve opened in these three

fractals before me, and there’s more

to do. Still, I plan my funeral:

no weeping, no more digging,

a clean burn, please, and one short

poem (two dates and three words).

This work is unearthing

shame and fear and anger

and it continues. I’m healing every

family now, even yours, uncovering

this pattern to the open air.

I’m looking for joy,

my point of ending

and beginning, and I’ll sift

through the agony to find it.

Inspired by: cursory, conniption, being, yarn