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Inheritance
by Dan Murphy
“Shall I at least set my lands in order?” —Eliot
Now we are the men we revered, the men
we hated—fathers ruining, lifting
and cajoling, guiding. Holding away.
The last generation is dead, and we,
its big-belly inheritors, scan
the property line for scofflaws. Signs
of rupture, signs of rebellion.
I don’t think I can tell you this story;
I’m making it up. It’s a dream, and we
didn’t know if it was raining or if
the fan we set by the window had stuck
on a thought or dust had settled between
the blades and mesh and was flicking itself
away. Flipping us the bird.
But this stucco house with bad light
looks out onto fields of gold, fields of green
and waving grass no one thinks to cut. Bent
toward broken turbines, power line-sentries
stationed at discrete intervals by empty
shacks. Someone’s childhood is set to begin.
No one has a plan, they’ve cut the vein, held
and slit the quaking throat of a ripe
calf, opened and shut a family bible
repeatedly to name a child and landed
on retribution, angry god, smiting.
It’s Thursday and the children are at school
or gone on errands into the grey and blue
winter air’s stern curriculum, swinging
metal lunchboxes against bare knees, knocking
the corner against the churchyard’s chainlink fence.
When they return to you, they hold one
small part of love, one of grief. In their hands
cradling a bird: His name is Bliss.