ANCESTRY
Sam Rye
im Shirley, 1932–2023
a kind of fieldwork
without touch
the message reads
white frost
again today
I long
to be able
to do the things
you do
even the algorithm
taunts me
my son
tells me I leave
voice notes
as I drift
between my own
body like a cold
front well I
never intended
the night to come
the glass of days
to sleep at the ends
of my wrists
am I only gleaning
that ache
of other lives
before me
intractable
as weather
the virus
pulling at the roots
I slip inside
your mind
to enter
every room
for the first time
blue intruder
we’re not so
different you
and I who
once lied
dormant
in a body of wheat
leaving a circle
where my voice
drew the wind
