My ancestors tapped rubber trees,
made incisions in the bark,
milked the sap, and waterproofed
the soles of their moccasins.
They kept their feet to the earth, grounded,
ready to move and endure conditions
they could have no personal sway in.
My mind, no longer firmly rooted,
floats clumsily above my head, as
helium trapped inside of latex
in some instinctual, primitive
attempt at resilience.
The string, our only remaining attachment,
a lifeline knotted tightly around my wrist.