Ancestors I want to touch my past in flesh, to find the puddle of my grave fixed like an autumn spider pinned on tight hairs of wind. to touch the sweat and stink of those who made lives from mud, who berthed babes in a soft link chain of flesh suckled them 'till mothers' fat grew hard on adult bones. I want the old to stand between me and the ghosts. we whisper to forget what's past like shame. we hate the elderly. we hate old age - doctors cutting loose folds of flesh smoothing our faces, dropping small yellow pills into our fragile hands. science is a dog we put on the trail of death and we think that death will frighten, or vanish, or move slowly away and make room for us -; we are waiting for science to move our graves. I don't want my grave moved, I want it found; the silly links of minutes have been snipped, we have cut our ties to our ancestors and the loneliness is killing us. it's killing me.
Andrew Lithgow's Questions:
I have two, related questions
(1) does the rhythm make sense? (line to line and in particular, throughout the piece); and
(2) do these lines have tension or do they read sloppy and loose? I seem to have lost all perspective on my own words