Tonight's Poet Corner: I Am Not My Father

I Am Not My Father
by Belinda Roddie

They clothe me in cinders and dust;
I am draped with the ashes of my ancestors.
They descend in the shape of cloak that hides
my face from all things summer and winter.

They speak to me when I am with loved ones,
keeping silent when I am alone.
I taste stone when they chant their regrets
and bitter chocolate when they reminisce on love.

On love, the earthy texture of
held hands or a kiss on brimstone -
on brittle bone and palmed amethyst,
but the colors are dimmed,
the colors are dimmed,

the color are dimmed in cinders and dust.
Now I shed the visage of a descendant.
My name is broken into tiny pieces,
marble recycled into mosaic,
flint igniting a flame of my own forging,

flint igniting an age old desire to be'
free of chill brought by kings I am tied to,
so I break the frail rope that still binds me,
and I slip into snow where no one can find me.