generational wealth
A poem by Nickie | May 17, 2026
I write my poems in
my ancestors' blood
On the trees
that were planted
centuries before borders stained the maps.
The steel that forms the cages
imprisoning their children
was crafted from
the same stones they carved freely
into calendars that tracked
the end of the world,
or at least the end of ours.
I sing my songs from
my ancestors' lips
with each sway of my hips
and step to the beat
I link hands in an embrace that spans generations.
The music that raised me
attracts flashing red, white, and blue lights
if it's played too loudly. Too proudly.
I eat my food from
my ancestors' decayed bodies
picked by the same
brown hands
closely monitored in the grocery aisle.
I write my poems in
my ancestors' blood
coursing through my veins
wounds gushing onto the page
flames refusing to be suppressed.
