We carry baskets of burdens upon our hips,
The wicker imprinting on our skin.
Generation after Generation
We carry the weighted shadows of the worries of our mothers.
We collect men who need us, like berries in a field,
And even if we drop them, their sins stain our fingers.
And as their juice runs down the lips of others,
We are forced to wash our hands.
Generational Trauma
Flannery Quinn 