The Family Tree


From this tree, they lynched John T
for the crime of preaching against slavery. 
Dead now, this spar stands 
among Holsteins in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow. 
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.

Tough to salvage, ancient black walnut 
hollowed by rot. Working together 
with chain saw and wrecking bar 
we find a section of solid core.
Here’s a scar in the bark like a grinning face
where the branch broke off, long gone.
That happy limb held the rope 
swinging John T’s massive frame  
of muscle and blubber and bluster.
Until it snapped. And he ran.
Fast as a fat man could run.

John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.

I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs, walnut plates, 
maybe even a tea set for your daughter
who seems so outspoken, so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words fire like cannons 
for freedom.