my great-great-great-great grandmother

half-starved crossing the country,

and she took a butcher’s knife to my

great-great-great-great grandfather’s chest

and broke him down like an animal.

she cooked him into stew, along with

the few beans, onions left among their stores.

her daughter held her up as a hero.

without that sacrifice, she never would

have lived, never would have felt the

sun on her skin. she planted a desert willow

in her mother’s honor, tending it with care,

each year it lived a testament to survival.