My ancestors became adept at leaving

because they had to, traveling by ship,

sinking low in dark-green winter waves,

subsisting on over-salted herring from

the bottom of the barrel. They learned

new languages, took on different names,

yet carried with them the same ancient

tales and histories that made them who

they were. I imagine that they sang

on the trip over, spinning wild fables

in the ship’s dark hold. After they reached

their destinations, the leaving didn’t stop.

Because they have to go, each sanctuary

gives way to the next. Even knowing what

they know, they still can hope there will

someday come an end to leaving.