The prompt today was to write an “auto” poem, so I took a semi-circuitous route and decided to write about autobiographies. Sort of.
(A sonnet about autobiographies, or lack thereof)
I imagine the lives my ancestors lived.
I try to picture what their lives were like
by looking at things I do know about them,
like where they lived, when they were born or died.
All the small details that make life complete.
How I wish they’d shared their words, had written
their thoughts, their lives, the way I’m compelled to.
Surely compulsion is passed from the past.
It seems I’ve chosen a futile quest, though.
Yesterday is gone and so are they, yet
I do see my great-grandmother’s nose in
my youngest son, her curiosity in me.
And that secret to the past, the knowledge
I crave? It’s been before me all along.