
Not every deed
in the annals of my family
was given an account.
It could not be. But the gospel writers
and eyewitnesses
each translated experience
and recollection to collections
of their own.
I protected as if genocides
were being sprayed from trucks
in the living room and
cessations possessed my hands.
I have planted them in earths
they were not potted in.
The tender greenhouse
became their new home:
soils in life they were never rooted in,
earthenware pots that drain and breathe
and reverse their suffocations.
May I plant you (uncle, aunt,
mother, dad) in a glass-windowed place
that marries sun to shade
so that your oaks may grow,
so we may know?



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