Ancestry

i broke my guitar last night threw it down onto the cement and in a crash it splintered split into three which there were: it, her, and me. reflections are numbed by the catharsis of time but in vague recollection i can still feel my guts twisted round barbed wire; it gives me vertigo. there is the figure of despair branded on my breast; sadness and humility though never regret whose court i refuse to entertain tonight, tomorrow. my memory is of a furious white haze encircling all around manipulating me like a puppeteer but i will never forget the way she picked up the shards and stroked them with maternal mourning. this guitar is my father, i wrote, and though its lifeblood is spilled the death of a child and parent i know that something greater an ancestry beyond this life will overshadow this, will overcome this.