Construction Zone

The Family Tree

From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
remains among Holstein cows
in a pasture owned by a man
who figures we're cousins somehow.
He is midwestern farmer,
I am California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.

Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T's three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.

John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.

I'll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.

A/N: My great great grandfather survived a lynching by Bushwhackers in Missouri during the Civil War. He was fat, outspoken, inspirational, ambitious, and was swindled out of a fortune. I should write a book...

Also: this is another poem I had to withdraw from wattpad because a journal wanted it. Now it's published in a peace anthology called DoveTales, so I'm making it public again on wattpad. And thank you again, everybody who commented and supported. You have nourished me when I needed it most.