A dry list of begets and begotten,
bereft of ornament, the nature of being,
inherent in each entry, ignored,
except for the small notations,
Dr., minister, Sr., or Jr —
pointless unless you knew
the pirates in the closet
or the secret tree of the family adulterer.
I imagine my poem tree
with lines as ragged
as the horizontal list of siblings
raining down progeny
like bombs into the future
of accumulated wives, husbands
and convolutions of divorce.

I forget — this is about love,
this cosmology wrapped around me
of inheritance, eyes, noses, and hair,
not of properties or moneys dispensed,
or rights in name bearing patrimony,
but of nurturing,  mothers care
above each name, a perpetual shower,
fathers and grandmothers genes,
binding us all together, all
the abundant creators, and the loose ends,
in passion or lust or conventional carnality –
we exist – because of this love.

Kent Bowker                4/17/12