1
My name, pattern of nucleic
acids, and documentation become
a dried leaf glued to
a petrified tree in a fractal forest.
2
The earlier the photograph,
the harder the faces, the darker
the clothes. Work, grief, God,
and fear sculpted these faces.
3
One cannot behold the soupy
sea of ancestry and still cling
to racism and sad notions
of superiority. A trillion
accidents set against social
calamity--not "bloodlines"--
birthed each of us. Every one
of us wailed when air first
thumped us in the lungs.
4
Everybody's common. The
rest is a confidence game.
5
A distant relation died
attacking a castle. He's buried
in digitized public records.
Genealogists visit his grave.
It's nothing personal.
6
I have to override the program,
which tells me a relation was
too young to be a mother. That's
rape for you.
7
Genealogy's a pageant of
folly, a carnival of silence, an
absurdity of great meaning,
a permanent promise of connection.
8
Sooner or later, our names
become unintended jokes.
9
People travel and travel and
travel. Meanwhile, clever ones
convince them that dreams of
belonging to a special group
are real. Nation, tribe, empire--
that sort of thing.
10
Humanity is composed
of women and certain
hangers on.
11
We're all cousins.
12
On average, each extended
family includes one genealogist
who insists on boring everyone
with dates, places, and photos.
In my family, I am he.
