Staff
We carve out our generations in stained ivory, totems. Oh, to be able to plant a tree that bears fruit, like fat ancestors that tell their story. At the center, carrying the weight of ancients on her shoulder is the grand, her breasts like missiles. Every generation carries its own joke, the line to the next, the family's tree reaching upwards. Someone cut away at the center of our line, scattered the shards of splintered ivory over our land, and we have forgotten the paths to our roots. Build me a totem with tendril roots that clutch soil and hold us steady, sentinels o the plains.