In this family we never see each other cry, die of broken hearts, never see golden age–cancer eats us–bracken swamps in our cells, inherited from my tobacco-picking kin. My great-grandfather carried a whiskey barrel on his thin back, walked the railroad track, scrawny pine sentinels silhouetted against a full moon, in Eastern Carolina darkness. A local ghost story tells how his soul lingers near the tracks, stumbles into oncoming light.
Christina Xiong
Honoring Our Ancestors:
An Anthology by Spell Jar Press