Dreams are not Immortal

Some men want us
women to believe
that it is our mothers' fault
that we are the sum of all
the parts we've heard and seen.
But does that man remember his own father?
Drunken and beating the woman
he promised to love and cherish?

It's alright, go ahead
blame her, after all, she bore
the son who knows no, shows no
respect, but do children not learn
by example?

I remember lessons I learned
as I lay motionless in bed, next to
my youngest sister. Mama always
left the window opened just a crack
in case we had to leave in a hurry
to go for help. I would help Sarah
down, her tiny gown becoming stained
by the red clay soil that defined
us and the region we were from.

Little Indians, Papa called us, but
truth be told, we were only a quarter
Cherokee and I considered myself
an in-between, never truly belonging
to any place or anyone.

I was pilfering through an old box
of photos, you see, I am Keeper of
visions and the teller of stories
in my family. When my Uncle passes on
I will be the eldest and I feel
ill-equipped to handle the fact
that I may be the next to die
and have yet to accomplish anything
with my insecure, pathetic life.

I want to go back, to be the little girl
( the one who had a chance)
who rode with her Papa on patrol
when he was "High Sheriff" of Polk County.
I want that innocence back, that time
before I knew that life was not perfect,
that men were not prince upon white stallions
who rescued you, placed you on a pedestal
loved you, and meant it.