by Sreeja Naskar

my grandmother used to tell me
we come from people who carried fire in clay bowls
balancing it on their heads across rivers
so the village would not go dark
i never believed her until the blackout last winter
when i lit a candle and saw her hands
in my hands—steady, trembling, both at once

at the family reunion my uncle said
we are lucky to still know each other’s names
that slavery was built to make us forget
he said his last name and it sounded like a wound
& we all said it back like a song
even the little kids who didn’t understand

my cousin asked me
if blood knows how to keep secrets
i told him yes, that’s why when we get cut
it rushes out of us, screaming
the truth of who we are
before we can hide it again

online i see people building family trees
with neat branches & photographs in color
my tree is messier
half of it burned,
half of it still in the mouths of elders
who forget sometimes
but when they remember,
the whole room goes quiet to listen

i think about the fire again
how someone carried it across water
for me to be here
how i carry it now,
small flame in my throat,
lighting every word i speak
my children will not be born in the dark

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