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.