Hands round her neck,
like a heart-shaped locket,
she carries the souls of the dearly departed.
Scraps of charred pictures
and stories unspoken,
sins of the fathers in her breast pocket.
Da Vincis lock burned
like witches forgotten,
Transgressions abound, along the Potomac.
*I wrote this after learning my great grandfather was a true monster. He was also a locktender along the Potomac river. He, and the days of locktenders are long gone- but the sin he bred into our blood remains*