Generations of strain and exhaustion
collide into my body.  Residue of small pox
scratches my throat.  The story too painful to
tell your daughter
surfaces now in my shoulder blades.

What were you forced to carry when all you wanted was one moment of rest?
Memories you promised not to pass on
knot themselves, a nest of copperheads in my neck.

Every step you took sparks my nerves.
Muscles ache from the work of survival.
Pain—The shadow left.
                        Settling dust of forced marches.
                                                 The handmark of history.

Is my body the bruise left
after the impact of your life?