heritage

this land–it’s mine,

buried in my bones,

deep as kinship and

covered in stone.

my hands in earth

soil-stained fingers seeking life,

seeking what’s after death?

seeking guard let down,

thoughts quieted,

woodsmoke-warm mugs bringing peace.

but it’s cold outside

and the wind is angry

and the earth is gray

feet crunching on soil

like teeth on walnuts fallen

from the trees in the yard–

the rotting ones left by squirrels.

it’s all dead out there

except tangled in the willows

down by the creek,

the faintest hint of green

and spring and hope.

branches sway–mirage–

and through its interstices

i think i see you.

and i know it’s not you,

just the you i saw last,

all those years ago

when you gave me a necklace

with a fleck of citrine–

imitation birthstone matching

my mother’s ring,

the topaz i wear even now.

in these trees with moss under my feet,

i’m closer to where we last met,

or at least the last time i remember

and sometimes i wonder what might have been

if our stories were different,

if the distance wasn’t so far.

you’re where the losing began–

the most consistent pattern,

with me as the common denominator.

was it all my fault every step of the way?

every moment missing,

running farther away until

there’s no way back and even the willows

turn brittle and there’s nothing left

except you and me

and a hundred versions in between,

skeleton hands pinky promising forgiveness

that will never see the light of day.

Anna Stowe