we all come through the void
from the hands of ancestors
who tilled earth
loaded guns bullet by bullet
pulled the trigger in good faith
that what they were doing
was the right thing to do
wether it be a sick man
or a dog needed to be put down
at the end of the cold barrel

I know my DNA is in
the rusted nails
of leaning barns
my grandfather built
soaked in the earth
on the farm where
I would sometimes lay
on the ground bleeding
from running through 
briars so I could feel 
some fresh hurt

it can be found under shingles
deminsional and three-tab
on the roofs of homes
across the country

or in Florida where
my mother walked
the forests doing work
that needed to be done

all of it is connected still
curled up tight around my spine
a history of violence and sweat
of hate and anger and failure
and though I wish I could
I can’t shake
whatever weight they carried
committing to things
that they did
believing the lie
that enough hard work
would force out
that noise
that threatened