I do the same ritual every morning
while the clouds wrap their blankets
around the sunlight: Practice Italian
and Spanish. Trace my fingers
along paths of cheekbones inherited
from my mother and all the mothers
before her. Gaze into the bathroom
mirror to make sure my chestnut eyes,
a hand-me-down from my mother
borrowed from autumn, are still
in good health. Sometimes I’ll bake
a focaccia and remember how its dimpled
surface contains the history of my
grandfather. The salt on my lips
after tasting it is a lesson in understanding
how you’re just borrowing bones
for the next generation. Every room
I’ve lived in will be left a part of me.
Perhaps, after I’m gone, my son
will assemble this map I’ve made
to show the direction our souls go
after we’ve parted.
Christian Ward is a UK based writer who can be currently found in Wild Greens, Cold Moon Review and Chantarelle’s Notebook. Future poems will be appearing in Dreich, Uppagus and Spillwords.
