Family Affairs

You let down, from arched Windows, Over hand-cut stones of your Cathedrals, seas of golden hair. While I, pulled by dusty braids, Left furrows in the Sands of African beaches. Princes and commoners Climbed over waves to reach Your vaulted boudoirs, As the sun, capriciously, Struck silver fire from waiting Chains, where I was bound. My screams never reached The rare tower where you Lay, birthing masters for My sons, and for my Daughters, a swarm of Unclean badgers, to consume Their history. Tired now of pedestal existence For fear of flying And vertigo, you descend And step lightly over My centuries of horror And take my hand, Smiling, call me Sister. Sister, accept That I must wait a While. Allow an age Of dust to fill Ruts left on my Beach in Africa.