by P.S. Nolan
It’s the irresistible rhythm that charms —
the forth and backness of life launched
from this ancestral seat.
Here’s DNA to match my own
lodged in the skin-bleached
hollow of hard wood
pressed by so many hands’ heels.
Trace how it crossed muddy miles —
traversed ruddy bloodlines —
from mother’s father’s aunt
to father’s mother’s uncle
before either one was born.
My father suckled here; my daughter too.
Who knew, by teasing gravity,
the deep distance a rocker might cover
to carry our children to sleep?