Why I insist on writing about my ancestors

Walk me back to this house
& kneel me into the dirt & at least
The dirt is mine, at least no one
Can mould me now except my
Ancestors. I insist on beauty because
They demanded pause & much more
& were granted instead the weight
Of losing the weight of language.
I owe them this bridge out of abstractions.
There is nothing to demystify;
This sky above me is white and alcove
& when l say They l mean interminable
Souls. I mean spill me across whatever
Divide &, listen, find me in the gap.
They owe me this. They forfeited their
Bodies & l make mine into fire.
See this last photograph in which
They stand shackled before They
were hung on trees by white men
& in their eyes you can see
A door and beyond that door
Is a cave and l love them for that.

Farai Chaka is a writer from Harare, Zimbabwe. He is avid reader who enjoys long walks and horror shows.