The Quilt of my Ancestors by Heba Khan

What is a person
beyond the
sparse memories
that are quilted together
and hung on the
clothesline of synapses;
This he(art) is
but a bottle of ink
that drowns the labyrinth
of cortices with remembrance.
Memories that are effaced with
the ocean of time,
resurface with the anchoring thread
of nostalgia.
We are only
what we remember,
our ancestors are embroidered
into the transcription
of our existence,
we must translate
their survival
into our legacy.