Now that we’ve twisted wrists
and shifted shelters, maybe
we can achieve the peace
promised to us by our progenitors.
The ones who hobbled on with crooked canes
and panes of stained glass in their chests.
How blest we are to have emerged
from such an ugly lineage!
Fragments of a vapor trail.
One more precious memory
will tip the scales in our favor.
Then it’s a gala! To be fruitful
and pursue abject scorn
is the goal we’ve chosen.
We’re frozen mid-sentence.
Our inheritance dooms us.