Gene Ballad

I was thinking about blood relations and the bonds that are forged in them.

A boy on a hill,
his sire’s horse set
quietly beneath.
The grave sits southeast
in the red mesas,
Aztec motherland
where some crops still lay.
In the soil by
the faded chapel,

Casa de Mary,
where grandmother and
her stubborn groom slept.
Also his father.
One tomb, three bodies.
No room for the lad
unless his bones were
cast in from without.

Yet many leagues still.
At the other end
of the continent,
in lands where eagles
soared on cold oceans,
the silver felon
glutted on the fruits
of his marvelous,
meticulous theft.

He was an uncle,
or else bore the proud
air of family,
those bonds of iron.
His shackles had been
broken many years
before, during the
grand infernos of
lineage warfare.

The felon swaggered,
executioner,
watching always for
blood-guided daggers,
the sort of weapons
used chiefly to taste
violent reprisal,
or sworn vengeance true.
He did not recall

his silent nephew
and the devotion
imparted by bonds
fashioned willingly.
It was a fierce sight,
the boy streaking North,
at the borders of
countries teeming with
emerald malice.

 

Reviews

[Nay]

Funny, I came here yesterday to look for this poem so I could comment and here it is now! :)

This poem is a great example of how skilled you are at storytelling, so well paced and full of imagery (but not overburdened by them). I wonder if "silver felon" and "emerald malice" are references to money; some details seem to suggest a migrant worker's immigration (references to Mexico/America).

This is such a rich piece, so full. It feels close to the heart, in an almost tender tone.