Heritage

My red neck’s at risk—
UV, interstellar gamma
and solar flares didn’t hulk me
as I wished, my mom always warning us
wear a hat, drink more water,
more and more sunscreen—
and my moles have grown
eyebrows, fanged tumors chewing through
my deltoids, threatening my spine. My derma
carved out three last week. I told
the cousins it was up to us
to change how the world beyond the hills
thought of rednecks—politics
is personal, our perma-tans
a sign of pride
in the fields, labor
rooted to ancestors
and conservation. We had to
save what we could—the seeds,
the trees, ourselves, them too,
even the cicadas and the snake handlers
on Uncle Jerry’s side. Several
beat me to the cemetery—
dying might only be a layover,
but I’m fine with a delay.
The oncologist should know today
if I’ll stay upright, I’m told
as they wheel me into the exam room
bright with harmless fake light.