Noah
My ancestors are mute and all I know
of them are ancient spear tips—and the shards
of painted cups that, while faded, still glow
as though they hold wine. Handed down, these guard
over my past, wordlessly talk of death
and what has been consumed. Now as I build
a ship to hold the world, I hold each breath
before exhaling— for all who'll be killed—
even as a few fragments cling to life.
I'll keep those broken few, and artifacts
of all who came before. What of their strife?
What of their burial? Borne on our backs
we'll carry memories of tombs and graves
to salvage and replant after the waves.
To salvage and replant after the waves,
we carried memories of tombs and graves.
What of their burial? Borne on our backs
were all who came before. What of their strife?
I kept the broken few and artifacts
even as a few fragments clung to life.
Before exhaling— for all who were killed—
a ship to hold the world, I held each breath
within my body's boat. Consumed, I built
over my past, wordlessly talked of death
as though wine. What was left, I tried to guard
like painted cups, faded—the rainbow's glow.
I kept the ancient spear tips—and the shards.
My ancestors are mute. That's all I know.
—Annabelle Moseley, Huntington, NY
