Genealogy

After Betsy Sholl

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One of my grandparents was a raging wild fire, the other a hurricane.
One was a shape-shifter, the other a statue.

In the night, I’d wake to yelling and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.
The scars on my wrist are the ones for calamity.

One of my grandparents was a rose bush, the other a thorn tangled in the vines.
One of my grandparents I took care of, and the other I became.

In the revolving door of my becoming, one applauded and one criticized.
Thus, my troubled birth, my endless fugue.

One was animate, the other an apparition.
Oh, how they amused each other.

I was ashamed of my genetics, embarrassed I couldn’t change them.
I was a child screaming into the abyss for some semblance of normalcy.