The Part She Didn’t Know She’d Have

If we, one day, in some as yet unfathomed way,

discover we are able by maneuvering a blip

in the continuum of space and time to slip back to,

and gad about with, unsuspected forebears whom

.

we didn’t know we had much less might find –

perhaps a sixteenth century novitiate (doomed

to exile for her sin of getting pregnant) in a convent

in Alsace, or vagabonds in tent camps in Afghanistan,

.

or members of an indigo dye guild outside what

now is called Islamabad – would we see faces

that resembled ours? Very likely not. We’re steam

and bubble that our mongrel melting pot effaces.

.

We’d peer into each other’s eyes, and see no

evidence in them of us, and soon erase the thought

that there was reason to surmise we had the barest

business with each other: indeed we might return

.

reviewing just how close we really are to mother,

father, sister, brother. Illimitable inimitability will

ever re-assert its proud autonomy: no mixing up

the ragged ends of you with me, it wants to say.

.

And yet had I the chance to stay to speak with

that expectant scared novitiate I wouldn’t turn it

down. I’d thank her for the part she didn’t know

she’d have in helping me to come around.

.