I know nothing about those spaces
of toil, birth or black hands red
from grabbing green earth,

shadowy wood houses
with so many splintered,
listing of seven families

complete with each member’s shade of skin,
but no evidence of ancestry beyond
characteristic boat-like bags

under my uncle’s, mine & my son’s eyes,
& the butternut star in the dark,
northeast of our irises.

I know nothing of 1918 draft lines,
being pardoned to care for an invalid parent,
telling a stranger who’s my next of kin,

or home cord cuttings & midwives,
neighbors recording returns of birth
in hasty, almost lost script

or what their script knows
about great great grands
& ashy black & whites.