Inheritors

We are weeds

            pushing against the concrete

trying to breathe light

            into the ocean sky.

This terrain is not meant

            for us;

we are intruders

            to the well-worn path.

Those above us

            before us

built their turf to be stone

            as it keeps Their way clear and flat

as they tread their way beyond us.

We only want to breathe

            the light

            but instead of rays of sun

                        we get sprinkled with Their product

                                    until we’re sickly sweetened.

Our fingers curl inward

holding tight all the dirt we have

in the world.

Our heads bend down

like oversized birds

cozy in their allotments

of deprivation.

The trick, They say

is to get started early;

            that way you don’t get more faces

                        with sunny ideas.

(We thank god for

            the leaden light

            to keep us

grounded

                                    safe

                                                and asleep.)