Mitochondrial DNA. A line snaking backward through history. A filament so fine it can only just be sourced, followed, tagged. There are stories passed along — this great-great was the first to live in New Orleans, that great-great remembered emancipation. But the thread is deeper, truer. No anecdotes for padding, no facts embellished and rearranged by the telephone game of time. Only the precision of biological markers riding a double helix trail back and further back. History in a test tube. A glittering line. To origin. Home.
Feh. Just not feeling as inpired, and I need at least a little of that if I hope to get anything decent written.
What’s that you say? Oh no, you’re wrong there. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m home late every night, and never have time to work on anything. Nothing at all.
Are you writing poems this month? Where can I see them? Let’s share this craziness!