for John Stone, 72
for Wilfred Michels, 43
for Sharon Ann Michels, 14

a line of murders and suicides stretches back
to before the ice melted away. the ice is still
melting away: this is a fact. this is a family tree,
a history written in black ink and blood. I found
the truth of it while searching for a past I did not have
through birthright: before I could even speak
I was banished from my father’s house. or abducted
if that is how you want the story told. that is the story
as I had it from my father, years later, a man
I never really knew, but whose face haunts my mirror,
a pale ghost in the night, hovering upon the glass.

I came upon the first story of that old grandfather
in the hardware store, killed for what was not even his
in the till, by my grandfather at 25 and some other
thug who never cared for human life. guilt became
my sole inheritance in an instant, but not the one
wanted for me. I was supposed to bear the name
shared by generations of men in a long, unbroken
line like some odd cross. it was that name that led
down the path towards the second story, the story:

his name was Gerald, a great-uncle whose grave
I visited before I ever knew about how he preyed
upon a little girl, or died by suicide after his last act.
the newspapers from December 8th, 1959 all
called it forbidden romance, but now we must call
it what it was. I think of her father, what he thought
while struggling to stay alive in his driveway. I think
of Sharon Ann: her face is etched in my mind like a river
crafted by glaciers, washing away the earth. how
she never knew true love, and only a little life. yes,
it is Sharon Ann I think of most, Sharon Ann who haunts me.