The Family Voice

If there is a Theseus. If I am to be banished— where, when? Northward to land of men I leave in procession—no ancestors to speak of. Maybe porcelain or rice paper, yes, floated in the lawn's rain pools that quickly dissolve. No, that's not how it happened. What ominous words would you have, Father, what would you name a machine's whir, a cloud of debris, a mask of sawdust? Believed kingly even through tragic flaws, most notably a desire to leave. Barefoot as you jumped dusty rows of cotton, checked for boll weevils in torn jeans with stains of grease and sweat. How do you disappear? Where is your tracery?