Family Tree

byKimberly Blaeser

A boxer grandfather
who once fought Star Bad Boy
who sired six beer drinking German sons
all with the same big hands. The grandmother I never knew
who might be responsible
for the heft of my thighs
is for certain the origin
of my father's sauerkraut
and fine venison sausage
perhaps for his sweet tooth
and maybe mine, too.

                           My father turned those boxer hands
to percussion and gesture
tapping and clapping and snapping
the quick step songs
but buttercupping the fingertips
to croon on bended knee
the long drawn Mona Lisa,
Mona Lisa, men have loved you.

My Chippewa grandmother
who was a midwife and medicine gatherer
tiny twig of a woman
who bore twelve children
bore the loss of two babies to influenza
the loss of one grown son to white man's war
and the loss of a generation
limbo Indians turned to alcohol. My Indian grandpa
who squints darkly
into cameras of the past
who raised two generations
on snake-infested allotted land
twenty-eight slow horse miles
from the village store
his crinkled story eyes
my first memory at two.

                           My mother born of dawn
in a reckless moon of miscegenation
whose foot rode the pedals
on fifty years of Singer sewing machines
her needles dancing rituals on a ribbon shirt
blending our jagged mismatched edges in a crazy quilt.

Two uncles who ran away
from Pipestone
Indian boarding school
and an auntie who stayed
who lost her fingers
saw them caught mangled
in the laundry press
who beaded kneaded quilted and braided
her way through four children
just the same Houses and fish camps full of cousins
who rotated authority
on marbles sex and skunk ettiquette
whose probation blues and 49 songs
deprived me of bee stings broken bones
swimmers itch drunken despair
and suicide
in whose tangles litters
blonde and black-haired softball players
I fearlessly set down my suckling babies.

                           My great grandfather Na-Waan,
Mi-na-waan-ni-goz, Lover of Natural Things,
whose Antell heart I am said to bear
who carried his name with humbleness
as I try to
and sometimes with rage
fire brown eyes sharp as any weapon
who cupped his hands around fertile seeds
brown fingers the pinecone
shelled house of protection.

All my relations.

© 2001 Kimberly Blaeser.

Return to the Kimberly Blaeser Website

A boxer grandfather who once fought Star Bad Boy who sired six beer drinking German sons all with the same big hands.		The grandmother I never knew who might be responsible for the heft of my thighs is for certain the origin of my father's sauerkraut and fine venison sausage perhaps for his sweet tooth and maybe mine, too.
	My father turned those boxer hands to percussion and gesture tapping and clapping and snapping the quick step songs but buttercupping the fingertips to croon on bended knee the long drawn Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have loved you.
My Chippewa grandmother who was a midwife and medicine gatherer tiny twig of a woman who bore twelve children bore the loss of two babies to influenza the loss of one grown son to white man's war and the loss of a generation limbo Indians turned to alcohol.		My Indian grandpa who squints darkly into cameras of the past who raised two generations on snake-infested allotted land twenty-eight slow horse miles from the village store his crinkled story eyes my first memory at two.
	My mother born of dawn in a reckless moon of miscegenation whose foot rode the pedals on fifty years of Singer sewing machines her needles dancing rituals on a ribbon shirt blending our jagged mismatched edges in a crazy quilt.
Two uncles who ran away from Pipestone Indian boarding school and an auntie who stayed who lost her fingers saw them caught mangled in the laundry press who beaded kneaded quilted and braided her way through four children just the same		Houses and fish camps full of cousins who rotated authority on marbles sex and skunk ettiquette whose probation blues and 49 songs deprived me of bee stings broken bones swimmers itch drunken despair and suicide in whose tangles litters blonde and black-haired softball players I fearlessly set down my suckling babies.
	My great grandfather Na-Waan, Mi-na-waan-ni-goz, Lover of Natural Things, whose Antell heart I am said to bear who carried his name with humbleness as I try to and sometimes with rage fire brown eyes sharp as any weapon who cupped his hands around fertile seeds brown fingers the pinecone shelled house of protection.
All my relations.