My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war.
His father watered it, the seed which came before.
My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber.
This tree grew ever higher.
Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me.
She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down,
Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground.
It falls to me, as this tree must be fed;
A living sacrifice of a life never lead.
I toss my children as far as I can;
Mutter the same empty words my mother offered
Over knotted hands.
Word Count: 100
A write for Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.
Click the blue froggy to read more!