Stand, Stand

She came from a family that had a Name,

made rich in mercantile trades with Greek gypsies,

whose purple silks would flutter on the shoulders

of the richest thieves France had to offer.

The last of that line lost it all to the horses,

and her great grandmother ran away at eleven.

Later, her great grandmother fell for a man who saw too much beauty

in the world--a man who knew he had to die, and

die well or else it meant nothing. He fought in

the revolution, and was cut down like so many others,

whispering his lovers' name at the end for the sake of Poetry.

After he died, he fathered twins. One never saw a sunset.

The boy left became a man, giving his change to the church

and bedding whores so that he wouldn't be forgotten.

When he fell from a smoke stack, they nodded,

and the papers printed his brother's name for his.

Her father was adopted by two widowed sisters that

loved him and made him get them cigarettes from the

drug store on the corner. He dreamed of fishing when

he read Hemingway, but followed a girl to college

and died in the rain while his wife delivered.

She grew up and her family came with her,

all of the generations standing as one and now--

alone as the many who lived, cried, and loved--

she died before her time when her boyfriend left her

and she stepped in front of my car.


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