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Colliding genes



The genes —

the pull of my grandfather’s train,

the Missouri tracks

and the dress she wore,

his first love,

as she lay barefoot

on the wet Midwestern grass.

The genes —

the pull of my grandfather’s sword,

the horse he wanted me to ride,

an Arab horse,

indifferent to Slavic fury

and Persian saddles.

The genes.

Is there perhaps

something lost in-between?

A secret will,

an encrypted text,

an idle screen?

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