Ancestral Grip
Talking back at the dead

Angry ancestor, don’t hold these strings so violently.
I am not solely your puppet — I am half human.
This house of flesh is cracked, rib and sternum are crooked.
I did not engineer these walls. Let me fucking breathe.
Ancestor, ancestor, what gives you the right to pull these strings?
Show me the contract. Why must I complete your unfinished business?
Whose violent hands moulded this body into this shape?
I try to change the shape with the shy winds of breathing,
with the heavy patience of centuries. But do I have centuries?
These ribs and bones will only bend so much in this prison.
Fate is still fate no matter how much I shout that I am free.
Antagonistic Ancestor, you know how much my free will is worth.
I’ve been in your grip for half of a life now — pawn between thumb and finger.
What exactly do you want from me? What huge mistake must I make up for you?
Can’t you let your vendettas dissolve with your ashes, or remain buried underground?
When you finally sleep, I will also finally sleep. Why must we struggle?
You say your genes are my genes, your diseases are my diseases.
You talk of karma — what goes around, comes around.
As if you are not you, and I am not I — as if I am you.
How can I be sure this heavy lifelong debt is legitimate?
How come I have no memory of your crooked broken life?
You might look like me in those black and white photos — but are you?
Ancestor, Ancestor, tell me what you need. I need to be free.
© Carlo Zeno 2022
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