out of that sack

I came 
and that bent flower

the dark room
ancestors lining up

their hands cupped with genes
out of that throbbing

the blood around their hearts
ribs touching

in the dance hall 
he in his white shirt

she with her tender mouth
wartime, tolling in their ears

engaged and wed in weeks
out of that hype and terror  –

she in satin
with her home fires burning

he, deep in the Borneo jungles
playing Mozart at night

making the mad men weep
out of that I came

and now – 
out they come

out of the bending flower
my ancient room

ancestors lining up again
with strangers

slipping in a bowed mouth
a squared chin

and a pang
out they come –

and out 
and out

and out.