Birthright

by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan

Just across that county line
There’s a place where
I was yours, and you were mine
I am merely fragmented pieces of “fine”

Four years ago, they stuck you there
A tiny box of ash—tidy as can be
Not a damn sentiment or care
Was given to you or to me
Pack it, sell it, will it away

Sometimes, I long to be free—
Of this road, that house, the property

Because after all this time, I find
That I somehow assigned my identity—

To what was yours that
Without mistake —will never be mine