i walk hand in hand
with my ancestors
who wear thick, brown coats
that slide across the dusty floor
their jazz instruments and swing bodies
move back and forth
to the earth's hidden rhythms
they bleed my own nostalgia
and their tears are seas
i have not visited
i climb trees to get closer to the sky
and to the old movies
that my mother and i watched
with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
intertwined and spinning
across the screen
if i climb high enough
i think I can hear voices
but they might just be my own
