I am just like the people

who came before        me—water-wrinkled

out of the green

mucky creek. From that watery hole,

we rose—out teeth

already dark,

cavitied. No one gave

us a penny to rub

rub—or a chance to make

any, and then my daddy died

for twelve hours—foam

on his lips

like that green creek. I have never

gotten over it.

He dug holes in the land

and he

hauled goods long distances

until his heart gave out.

The doctor pulled it out of his chest

and he couldn’t do anything

anymore,

had to

take pills from orange bottles

but had no coins

to survive                     and then he died

from the pills and I buried him

in a hole

in the ground, different from where

we came from, and I

wanted to go

again to the old water—little fish          swimming

back to the beginning,

emerge human

and grab

grab my mother and brothers,

and daddy, and pull them out to the cold earth

to the start of our lives

again

before he died

and we all had more

than twelve hours left

to foam, but no coins

no coins

in our pockets.

Nothing, only pills

to buy

the dirt, the ground.