by Kyla Sisson
(for Arnie Sisson and Susan Crane)
Although I have not rolled the roots
of my hair into thick brown vines, as you have,
I, too, see a part of myself reaching down to the earth,
to the muddy beginning of things.
I trace my roots to the rivermouth,
to the tree planted strong on the riverbank,
sending down roots to the riverside,
where Peter laid down his sword, and the father
of my father’s father was born.
My great-grandpa was a radical too,
gave segregation the slip. He leaned back
in the back of black churches,
eyes closed, foot tapping
to the wingbeat of struggle.
Although I have not struggled
up the side of a B-52, as you have,
or poured out a libation of blood for the many dead,
I, too, see that war and peace grow
in the same garden, their roots tangled up
underground. Once, I tried to grasp the thorny stem
of poverty and yank it out, only to find its roots laced tight
into my own small comforts
Now I roll up my sleeves, as you do,
and begin the hard work of redemption.
As we haul water back from the riverbank, the clank
of my shovel singing out against the bucket,
I learn that the revolution requires two things:
A sturdy back,
and a song, strong enough
to put down roots.
