Great Great Grandmother

Plate no. 4 Grapes, 2025, archival matte photo paper, embroidery thread, cyanotype, 7" x 9."

I don’t know anything about you,

except how you died.1926.

Grapes sprayed silver with poison,

you breathed them in,

not knowing.   

But I imagine hibiscus flowers tucked behind your ear,

like I do when I get the chance.

Salt wind combing through your hair,

bare feet pressed into damp soil.

You must have loved flowers, like your daughter.

Maybe you grew up laughing in sunlight,

only to be caught too quickly,

a ring on your finger, two children at your side.

No time for hibiscus.

No time for the sea’s wide breath.

And what if my great-great grandchildren

knew nothing of me but how I died?

Would they sense my essence  

flickering inside their blood,

like a hidden lantern?

If I could write to them, I would say:I

am the dreams my foremothers were denied.

Artist, poet, traveler.

I hold the thread of freedom tight.

I breathe pine forests, ocean tides,

petals scattered across the kitchen table. 

I carry beauty like a torch through the dark corridors of this world.

I hope that you follow these threads,

in spite of everything,

Hibiscus flower tucked behind your ear.

This poem is part of an ongoing project "In Spite of Everything" reimagining the family photo album through mixed media collage and writing.