ancestor soup

i mostly avoid my ancestors
when i run into them in the dark.
but sometimes, in a pot of broth
i'll see a walking stick & take it. 
my grandfather would braid his hair
& his beard. lean his legs against
the wall. we are shrinking people.
memory is not so much a state
but an act of invention. what were we?
the resewing of a gone blanket. 
i keep keys in my pockets so that
if they ask for a gift i have something
to keep them busy. i have never seen
a picture of any of my great grandfathers.
it is possible one does not exist. 
we are not sentimental people but we are
collectors which is just another word
for hoarders. if i were to try to summon them
i think i would go into my parents' attic
where there are pocket watches & 
rings & hair pins & beads & skulls & letters. 
gather a good bunch of them up 
& put them in a round-gutted pot. 
bring it to a boil. the smell of metal 
& mildew & leather. they would come
& try their keys in my mouth, each tooth
a door into a buried life. i have blood 
like syrup. i never heard my grandfather laugh
but i think it was sticky & wild. serve them
the bowls of soup. our mismatched spoons.
an emptied sky. all the stars down to visit. 
the mule deer & the elk & the spiders.
we feast & the ladle never comes up empty.