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.