‘Pore Bearer’

I know I’m not the sole author Of my mind and heart. Not even this poem.

Sure, I own this tall container of a person that carries me,

But the contents always leak.

My ancestors jostle around inside me,

And they crowd and shove inside each other, too.

Once, I thought I was a solid hunk of a soul,

Impenetrable, private, my own best man.

But I look at my hands and see my father.

My grin and tears? My mom’s.

And who knows where my greatgrandmother lives.

My hair, my teeth, my toes, my knees?

I’m going to pretend that she’s in the way

I sit on the edge of my bed each morning, bare feet on the floor. A family tree is not so much a tree As a river we float on, drink from, drown some.

No matter how much I want to hide from myself,

There’s no door to shut, no lock, no key.

The only reason I’m telling you this now

Is to admit to myself that there’s no me without you.

I’ll also never meet all those I’ll live in. You neither.

But if I return, let it be as a screen door on a warm afternoon. Some high bird song or tire grumble will be welcomed in. I’ll let the neighbors know what’s cooking.

Better yet, Sister, make me a sponge who never tires

Of getting and giving and starting again. Pass it on. Laurence Musgrove is a professor of English at Angelo State University in San Angelo, Texas. Send poems (40-line limit) to Poetry, San Antonio Express-News Book Editor, P.O. Box 2171, San Antonio, TX 78297-2171.