Ancestors

The cloth had not been weaved by Ariadne
but the old man wore his robes proudly,
announcing himself to the camera's shutters

so different from the curtains
hung in bedrooms
by the light of the candles
the only shadows his son knew
were trees

Until he found the shadows
of ships' masts
of prohibition
and valentines
that chased him back

A man of the world
with a gold pocket-watch
a little bit of dream pavement
for the arms of an olive-eyed girl

You shook the branches
to send down those eyes of your mother
the olives
but this time the ground wasn't covered in expectant bed-sheets
and your fruits fell
to enemy soldiers.

As they starved, the people of the village learned
The center of the fruit is hard
not so it can die
but so it can endure the life.

You at 16 hid in doorways of white stone
teaching invaders the hard lessons
of olive pits
the exploding wrath of a people.

Until you earned your ticket in human suffering
third class to the promised land
where you learned to commune
with dawn
with bones and blood vessels
in the black and white photographs of the soul.

Where you found white-uniformed determination
the beauty of faith
love among the ruins of the
second world.


Now, the temple's been sold
I wish I could see buried time
as I wait
for hands to reach through the fog
cradle my dreams like worry beads
to stand with me quietly
at the chain-link fence.