It is Written

I went back to the house
of my childhood
to bury hate with love

I saw the faces of ghosts
justting out from the walls
each dear and feared face

My parents-my ancestors
parts of who dwell in my cells
parts trapped in rotted plaster

As if they were vines
pulling brick from brick
souls of Virginia creeper
dismantling the diseased house
for me
for my babies

They cannot speak the horrors
they have lived
but it is written
in their green leaves

and I, for one,
believe them

Lucy Simpson


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