To My Welsh Ancestors

To My Welsh Ancestors for Ron Rash The genetic burden of poetry fell lamentably onto me. No matter that bardic names- Owen, Llwellyn, Gwilym, and David fell upon the men of my line, colliers from the bell pits of Swansea, cousins to wild Dylan, drunk on wine, rhyme, and the grandeur of his own voice. Their poetry was of invective and curse, long, linear, multisyllabic damnations that peppered their targets like buckshot. My sire could spin one malediction for fifteen cruel minutes-red faced, sweat-popped, hate strangled. The women crept meek, spoke platitudes, coaxed beauty from dirt, manna from dust. The tepid gene took a twist within the mandala of my DNA and began to speak. Once loosed, rhyme and verse swarmed round, spells chanted against curse and fist. —Jane Hicks 60 ...