Lineage

Ivy Raff

i.

cleopatra had special talents for snakes & makeup.  i always knew 
the texts lied about her state of unmarriage, for she was

my mother’s mother. & one thing i know is that in 64 years
my grandfather never saw her bare of rouge, lipstick, rings

of kohl about her eyes.   a score of years before she died,
cleopatra slipped from her bureau an emerald

silk tunic, caressed its hem along the angles of my face.  
all this will be yours, she cooed, but not yet.


ii.

my mother is abraham.  god said kill your first-born & her eyes
brimmed with answered prayers.  cleopatra’s chosen must not breathe
the air in this home.  she raised the knife.  unlike isaac i
glared at her, hate pure as glacial melt.  she plunged my chest & god
returned to playing bridge.  god relaxes, smokes cigars; when it’s just us girls, 
no one writes these tales.  i resurrected when i wrote this.


iii.

my hair, cleopatra’s copper jewelry, burnishes
silver with the years.  my hands roughen – against them,
wood handles of knives rock slow neanderthal rhythm.
the forests birthed a years-long plague; before it, my nails 

glinted unassailable, two rows of cherry soldiers.  now i’m mortal.
every year-clock click makes me look like
everyone else: europeans all born gray of one grandmother.
so i think i’ll just live by bow & spear, wrap myself in skin, 

commune with stone & animal blood,
gorge on antelope til my belly sings me to sleep.
a huntress-gatherer, i mother
what’s to come.  

iv.

i was what’s to come for my mothers; 

they, absorbed in wine or dressmaking, childrearing
drudgery & back-break, couldn’t notice.
cleopatra’s mother was a cook.  her ancestors
tamed silkworm trees. her stonemasons

invented lavish closets, enclosed the fabric.  we are anachronisms,
bakers, military strategists.  hold a gun to my head & demand my secret
sourdough recipes.  i’ll slide a daisy in your barrel, kiss 
your cheek, murmur, come, tateleh, let’s bake some bread.

we all look so hungry.  we all look like dim-lit hallways: my home
is a maze of them.  come in.  sit down.  eat.


Ivy Raff is the author of What Remains (Editorial DALYA forthcoming 2025), winner of the Alberola International Poetry Prize, and Rooted and Reduced to Dust (Finishing Line Press, 2024). Individual poems appear in Ninth Letter, Electric Literature’s The Commuter, and West Trade Review, among numerous others. Ivy serves artist communities as MacDowell's Senior Systems Project Manager and as a member of Seventh Wave Magazine’s editorial team.


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