I Am From

I am from yellow chipped paint,

From Talimage and Brant streets,

The year round scent of Eucalyptus tree dust.

I am from radio stations, Walkmans,

            And trumpets: an extension of the arm.

I am from cotton dresses and pulling on my mother’s sleeve

Scolded for breaking the screen door in Summertime’s sleep apnea.


I’m from the scratches on vinyl and tapes playing in Father’s ’02 Volvo

From high school students searching for salvation in Black Flag and Fu Manchu,

            And chapped lipped kisses, cigarettes snuck underneath bleachers, the bruised knees of a sinner. 

I am from mosquito bites and scratching at my ankles in the darkness

            Watching as my silhouette catches up to my feet,

And bodies dancing underneath a tungsten streetlight (separating real from imaginary friends).


I’m from Thursday morning, a childhood friend’s face smiling in the obituary section of the newspaper,

And the sky looking like the color pallet of the grim reaper.

I am from creased and ivory petals, searching for shade in the shadow of a gravestone.

Growing up: a body frame of wooden beams,

Creaking underneath the weight of this house.


This poem is about: 


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