Sometimes when I think I’m over it,
When I think my heart and mind have healed,
When I catch myself laughing extravagantly
As though without a care in the world,
I sneak back to that small cave inside me
Beyond the lake, morning begins to form.
Although everything seems possible,
My father sits quietly in the parked car
Staring out at the clarity of the dawn sky.
When his grandson tugs at his pants leg,
Wanting to see the starlings whistling in the tree outside,
He cannot help but see himself one long-ago day.
Whether braided, twisted or coiled,
Bast fiber, strong as muscle,
Is useful for holding back a mob,
Dragging cars out of ditches
And in the hands of the South
In the 1930s, for lynching
If looped and knotted to any strong tree.