I am going to leave my trace history
that shiver of blood down the tunnel
of vein to someone probably a stranger
definitely not to the children
I’ve never had the truth
in the matter is something like
a riot we won’t know it
until we’re in it
the children I’ve never had
will be wondering why my trace
element was lead
whereas the other mothers
left behind sheepskin
and spring buckets
and iris-shaped medallions
I am going to be the trace history
of what history has not yet
made a fact the fact that
marriage is no longer a sign
of redemption and children
its natural outcome
I have become a version of truth
not yet likened to itself
a way of saying I am the history
of a traveler without a roof
to keep the sun separate from my skin
a history of traveling to the sun
and back light scattered
mad into seed
