I am from lenses,
from milky film and dark rooms.
I am from the sand under blue-green sea.
(Irritating, a pearl
forming on my tongue)
I am from the willow tree,
the sprigs of mint
whose leaves left a scent
I remember as my own.
Iím from moon pies and ink pens,
from Audrey and Katherine.
Iím from the south-mouths
and the bless-her-hearts,
from you mess it, you clean it up.
Iím from His enduring love
even for middle school girls
and the blame I hold.
Iím from cross-roads and the Battery ,
old houses and even older ghosts.
From the finger my father sacrificed
to the treadmill,
to the harrowing political defeat of Mike.
In a locked away room, in a box
sits the remains of pictures, scribbles
lost loves and hopes
tucked away from the heart.
I am far from the girl who held these,
tasting the all knowing sweetness,
fruit fall from the branches of life.