Ancestors Are Calling Poem by T. J. Anderson III

Sometimes the ancestors call









tongue to mouth
an auburn molt of daguerreotypes stained

Sometimes the ancestors call









an earwig gracefully arranged
a pebble between pincers caught
is the scene's composition

Sometimes the ancestors call



shovel heeled curt wedge of earth,
a convent of daisies assaulted
a lunar moth poised at dung end
oak leaf suddenly caught at mid-fall







Sometimes the ancestors call

dark sip sickle scythe curve
a wagon's tracks from coffins weighed
Wind to forecast their arrival
Wind to dictate the shuffle
and strut of steps
to the rust of gates.



Sometimes the ancestors call







Not in the great cinema graphic arias
Of gun firing bandits at a locomotive's gray smoke
But in rage of gray starlings
Circling over head













Not in the paranoia of walks down bug house corridors
Nor to bed pans brimmed do they call.
Not in the paranormal cadences
of cathedral spiked with sepulcher and crucifix



I could be anything
other than what I propose here
I could be song
I could be dance
I could be slab of sky





How many generations still left to measure?
At what cost this cadence?
At what price the grave's granite thumb?