My Family History
Poetry by Kristina Crane
My family history rots in a broken down orange VW bus in the Nevada desert, filled from floorboards to roof with rats nesting in family secrets. Maps lined the windows until all the roads sun-bleached away. We examined our hands for clues, held flashlights against our palms and saw the red glow where veins moved to tributaries. Our hands held no calloused clues. We breathe life into dark corners, and find our own way home.
About the writer
