ancestry

ancestry

brock robinson

my great-grandfather had feet made of a fire

so hot that he torched a path clear across the

soul of oconee county south carolina and

did not stop until he’d scorched the desires

of every blushing belle this side of the mason-

dixon line. my great-grandfather had a smile

that was enough to make you believe mankind

was crafted in god’s own image and when he

made his way into a church and let the old

amazing grace fall from those honeyed lips

he made the devil himself fall to his knees

and seek salvation.

doubt this as much as you please but there are

nights when the moon is so swollen that you’d

fear she’s going to drop like a stone out of the

sky and I pick up my heavy earthen feet and try

and spark the same magic that caused even the

most pious church-going shrew to crumple at

Alfred Baines Robinson’s feet. my mother

watches me from behind the safety of her green

glass bottle and lets the tears prick her eyes - i

swear to god you are that man reborn - this she

confides to the pillow - what he would’ve said

were he here to see this.

do you wonder why when you tell

me how I have my mother’s soft hands

how I have the bold arabian nose of my

father i in turn tell you how very little this nose

and hand feels like it is part of a grand road-

map of ancestry? how little resemblance

has done to make me feel like I belong?

rather it is in those stolen moments when I

can taste the serpentine tongue of my great-

grandfather in my mouth it’s the heat that

swelters under my collar that pushes me

to tell you this story with my hips under the

crying moonlight it is then that I know that I

indeed have history pumping through my

veins.