Several million years ago,
a small upright biped convinced her starving family
to leave Africa,
convinced them of green fields—
plump, slow game—
Mesopotamia called, or maybe southern France.
Perhaps my wide-eyed, darkest ancestor already knew
the longing for hot drinks served near lavender and sunflowers.
It could be that, tired of foraging for wild-greens
and small comestables for her hungry clan,
she had already developed a genetic predisposition
for Jane Austin and fancy sandwiches served on lace.
I gaze back as far as possible into her restless eyes,
trying to find a trace of my own future
written coiled and ready to spring out
into an endless night sky.