I.

I wished that my forebears were gone.

Not because I hated them, you see.

But I was tied by twine that tugged.

A thick cord that asked too much of me.

When will we be grandparents?

You should think about being wed.

You are grown, roots should be tapped into loamy soil.

NO

Yet still the rope pulled,

Dead North,

Towards patriarchal poles.

Stumbling, running, no breath left to feel.

II.

I was a seed back then.

A gestating genotype.

Free—as much as anything can be.