Sifted through England
On the way to Pennsylvania,
They came out of the Danelaw.
The record is set in my father's
Proud, high-prowed face.
I, English toned and tainted,
With Bucks County only a name
Like a kite at the end of a long
Thread in a cold northern sky,
Do not plan to go there.
Somewhere South through
Sweetbriar, Knox, Anderson,
Roane, to Polk, the Cherokee
Dropped in for a chat, leaving
My father such cheekbones!
They almost crowd his eyes
Shut in the old photograph (prow
Merely augmented). The Dane shows
Still in the way his head rides
His neck like a tall ship.
Scarborough (North Sea) Scarbrough,
Scarberry is the way the name goes,
Traceable on landholds: a fortified
Place. In the Danelaw: Skarthi's fort,
Ramparts apparent still
In the formidable look.
The other (Celtic) essence of me
Sounds in my mother's highland name:
McDowell: son of the dark stranger.
Sept, not clan. Perhaps
Explained by the swarthy son.
Sifted through Ireland on the way
To Cape Hatteras (fleeing rejection),
They came eventually to mountains.
On the way a red-haired Dutch
Girl dropped in for a chat,
Leaving my mother her auburn hair.
It was the color of a stormcloud
Besieged by sun. In the photograph
It reddens like dawnlight.
Daughter of the wandering
Medical Scot, she crossed (at age 2)
The last western escarpment, dropping
By jolt wagon down to Tennessee,
Polk County, and my father,
Errant orphan she would later
Marry mostly from pity, she said.
But it was not a pitiful marriage,
Grim poverty notwithstanding.
She was the driving force.
Dying, he cried, "Some water,
Please," adding the word "home."
One hand under his head, with the other
She held the cup steady, returning
It full to the kitchen.
Leafing again the worn album
(Bachelor on a Sunday afternoon,
With whom avoidlessly the line stops),
Pondering the long treks they
Took to my native country,
These folks of mine,
Bring me rich blood and certain
Not negligible gifts (acknowledged now
In far places), I am perplexed
To be the one to subvert history.
Sifted through Ireland on the way
To Cape Hatteras (fleeing rejection),
They came eventually to mountains.
On the way a red-haired Dutch
Girl dropped in for a chat,
Leaving my mother her auburn hair.
It was the color of a stormcloud
Besieged by sun. In the photograph
It reddens like dawnlight.
Daughter of the wandering
Medical Scot, she crossed (at age 2)
The last western escarpment, dropping
By jolt wagon down to Tennessee,
Polk County, and my father,
Errant orphan she would later
Marry mostly from pity, she said.
But it was not a pitiful marriage,
Grim poverty notwithstanding.
She was the driving force.
Dying, he cried, "Some water,
Please," adding the word "home."
One hand under his head, with the other
She held the cup steady, returning
It full to the kitchen.
Leafing again the worn album
(Bachelor on a Sunday afternoon,
With whom avoidlessly the line stops),
Pondering the long treks they
Took to my native country,
These folks of mine,
Bring me rich blood and certain
Not negligible gifts (acknowledged now
In far places), I am perplexed
To be the one to subvert history.
