The Family Tree

 

The Family Tree

From this tree, they lynched John T
for the crime of preaching against slavery.
Hollow now, like a scolding ghost
this spar stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man who figures
we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart but
blood is thicker than geography.

Tough to salvage, ancient black walnut
riddled by woodpecker, softened by rot.
Working together with chain saw and wrecking bar
we find a section of solid core.
Here’s a scar in the bark like a grinning face
where the branch broke off, long gone.
That happy limb held the rope
swinging John T’s massive frame  
of muscle and blubber and bluster.
Until it snapped. And he ran.
Fast as a fat man could run.

John T, grandfather of my grandfather,
ran into the forest hiding until his best friend
rescued him, a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather of the man
with whom I speak. Thus,
cousins in the country way.

I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs, walnut plates,
maybe even a tea set for your daughter
who seems so outspoken, so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words fire like cannons
for freedom.

…..

From my book Random Saints
First published in Dove Tales. Thank you Carmel Mawle, editor.
Photo by Roger Culos