Hello all, I just discovered this thread and take to this stuff like draugh to water. If I may offer something? Its old, and called My Family. My mother is a genealogist, she works In the boredom between outhouses. When I was little, I was given ten pence For every Barnes, Sealy, or robed four-poster grave With a canopy of monkshood that I called and shrieked from. Imagine my Sonic the Hedgehog jumper Amongst that politest of human things, The graveyard. My mother wrote our autobiography, a Trojan thing, An epic, tragic, boring thing. And I saw my family, and what I hated of it, And what I mistook from it. I had a birthday party, the first family event in a while And as we sat eating lasagne I filofaxed them between My fork tines. Grandfather, you Swindon brittle, you are a glass-mullioned horse full of lemonade And I used to hear the ice clink in your knees when you went upstairs. Grandmother, not my grandmother, the changeling that boils everything. Great Grandmother, you are missing, but just so you know, your Living room scared me. I always imagined you blind. I wanted to write a poem about heritage, About my lack of memorial, My kind's lack of pride For the shame of being born to the Same pool that denied women the vote, The black man his own galoshes And the world a cloudscape free of cirrhosis. You are my heritage, my uneven fence pegs You mis-match, you me.