I began as the daughter                                    of two small-town sweethearts

And grew into the daughter                             of just-about divorcees
 

I am the sister of a seventeen-year-old            car-totaling brother who’d rather spend nights

in some basement, instead                               of applying to college

I am the sister of a star athlete                         who is just growing
            into her own skin, into her teenage                              years, into parties and boys

I am the granddaughter of a nurse, always napping,                           cancer-ridden with a cigarette precariously balanced between her lips, a book                                     of crossword puzzles on lap

I am the granddaughter of a gym teacher         whose OCD can get in the way
of love when you fail                                      to swing a Wiffle Ball bat his way
 

I am the great-granddaughter of two Korean War veterans                 that I only knew sitting

in velvet reclining chairs while Westerns looped                                 on the television

            And I am the great-granddaughter of two Polish immigrants              I remember faintly,

            whose smiles I remember strongly, remember their shag                    carpet smell perfectly.