Andrea Skyberg

We carried the seed of the first

Along the centuries of the past

To the time of the present

And into the future

Wrapped in the skin

Of each of us

A pocket within a pocket within a pocket

That seed felt each trip, push, stumble

That seed felt all the skins

Wrapped around it

And the pulse of the experiences that tore

The skin open

Bled into each seed

Birthing our collective pain 

into each generation

We carried the product

That couldn’t break down

But could destroy us

It let us use it as a way to help us carry

But in the end it filled us—

A life that ends—

With it’s never ending life

So to carry it

Created us a paradox

A dying shell

Holding a living poison

That was also medicine

That could heal the dying

We scrubbed it

And reused it

Making it clean

And worthy of life again

But each washing wore away

The coat that separated the 

Medicine from the poison

We carried the sands of the past

The dirt, the nutrients, the peat and soil

It weighed us down with each step

But together we heaved it

From one body to another

Like sandbags

Filling, protecting, building

A future we might never see ourselves

We carried the weight as a reminder

And as a tool

Into a space that only allowed building to be straight lines

And sharp corners

But we carried it anyway

with longing