My great grandmother was Cherokee;
a preplanned life when she was born.
Worked the farm of her Irish husband
growing potatoes, carrots, cabbage, corn,
living tempestuously.
One photo survived decades:
Dark wrinkled skin stretched thin
Joyless face, a solemn gaze,
eyes of a stoic slave.
I don’t think she loved him.
Generations flow, so little change.
My teenage mother is the same,
shackled in the babies shed,
their father, ignores his shame
living tempestuously.
My parents fight, they’re scary,
loud. Instinctively I hide,
waiting for their rage to subside.
I never met Roweena
but I see her clearly now.
