Family Tree
A poem
How long will I last, reincarnated
at the bottom of the food chain?
The salmon I smoke outside is smothered
in garlic powder, a recipe handed down
from father to son — a first-generation
attempt to fashion an epic poem
of painted mazes across the Mediterranean,
of sheltered demons waiting in dark spaces
between feasting halls. How does one write
about fear, wrestle with the possibility
of getting it all wrong, hated albumin
that ejects itself against attempt?
The recipe is insurance, a last testament,
timeless, framed above a table someday,
silk-screened onto a mass-market T-shirt
like the code snippet to rip a DVD.
At least I can cook & eat the fear
& smoke my dreams away. It smells
like the ocean, both terrible & familiar,
both a barrier & a canvas that never ends.
©️ Trapper Markelz 2024
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