The Line
How do we know
what we know-
that this is healing
and that is harm?
I cannot name
the ancestors
whose hips I lean into,
whose stories spun my hair.
But this land feels unsteady
and that man is no friend
and my daughter sees
with the eyes of someone
before her.
My family does not keep altars—
no candles for those gone on
But I wonder sometimes
what we bear—
what is carried.
what is fruit.