Where There’s No Cursive

It’s not the slashes through the timeline, 

Not the practiced cursive

Spelling out names

That we must all know.

It’s the blank in between

The names we will never write.



It’s voices that didn’t get recorded

Speeches spoken at thanksgiving dinner tables, 

To sisters and cousins. 



It’s not just the cursive names on forever preserved papers

Not just the cursive dates on eighth grade social studies timelines, 

It’s the bated breath and hopeful glances and calloused hands

From the spots on the timeline

That don’t get marked.