I am my forebear’s daughter. I am only what was long begun.

When opened, one spills.
When cracked, one leaks.
When crushed
under hammer, one can only
breathe
by leaving.

And I am leaving.

I am my forebear’s daughter, so there is a ship, in the harbor

for me.

Because no bosom
carried me, just
a horizon
who placed me on their knee.

I am a pocket knife. Weasel faced. Torn blue jeans.

I am my forebear’s son.

And I am leaving.

All of this. Everything.

I am ashes. I am sailing pieces,
howling,
out into my forebear’s big,
untouched,
sea.