I am from paint-chipped bookcases,
from waves of chemicals and florescentclouds of Wiindex.
I am from the wall on the hill, with the weeds and spider webs
spilling out from every corner.
I am from the cracked, clay pots of dirt and magnolia blooms,
the freshly mown lawns, as sweet as Autumn's breeze.
I am from Paint-By-Numbers and instant oatmeal secrets,
from Momma and Nina
and the wheel chair by the sink.
I am from sharp-tongued mothers and half a generation of teeth.
From sepia tinted westerns, and canned, sitcom laughter.
I am from an existence beyond the stars,
believing in the unseen, without a brain numbed by ignorance.
I'm from Jackson and Granna's arms,
Lemony, rice soup and baklava.
From the first tooth I ever lost, yanked out by grandpa's pliers,
the screaming bitter socket,
and the loathing child eyes.
I am from Granna's attic, where centuries settle in piles of dust,
slowing present time to a satisfying crawl.
