Light Mark
A silhouette of my lineage.

The stars are vanishing
into an eerie caress, whispers, then silence.
There are still too much poetry trapped in a kiln-dried jawbones,
bloodstained forepaw and headless dove
stranded at the foot of the door.
Mama treats prophets as comets
from out of space; she always listens for songs beyond this form.
There are stories buried under the cities
in our veins and names of sons exiled to thralldom.
There are petroglyphs of ashes
pouring out of vessels forenamed as kindred bonds,
only feathers left as proof where bird songs once nested.
Women look both ways before alluding to the past
& God doesn't speak in the ascent of my ancestors.
There's no peace for father even in formaldehyde;
little brother solemnly adjure father's conscience (in dreams)
to speak of me and what's beyond twilight.
I'm the wounded bird in a clouded shrine
sniffing mindfulness out of yesterday's footprints.
There's a heterodoxy figure
on the 2am moon and it shames me for heresy.