I am from arable land

From tall scratching grass and hum of electric cattle wire

I am from stolen sweetpeas and muddy carrots, slipped through to the old white draft-horse

And his long stained yellow teeth

Twitching fleecy ears and soft black eyes

  

I am from generational mulberry trees

Black, yellow, red, on tilled dark soil

Stained hands and feet and balancing on picnic tables to reach

From the ivy-crept pumphouse and hidden shrieking robin chicks

I cupped in small hands

  

From tall baskets of fresh zwieback and steaming plates of flinsen and jam

From hot bowls and mugs of love, and fresh-pressed grape juice

Yellow morning light on the crisp gold pears, the twelve-times-grafted apple trees,

 

The sugar plum trees with the painted stones at the base

Where I buried a best friend

 

Returned with an acquired fear of crawling things

Childhood covered in wasps, like those dropped plums

Gave a silent berth to the empty stable

And the hailstorm of doctor bills

I am from derelict and peeling minds

Insidious frost in family conversations

 

I am from “this shall come to pass”

I am from worrying that it will too soon

 

And also who will water the sweetpeas

And how severe a winter it will be

   

I am from ivy swallowing everything up

The fruit trees crushing themselves under their own rotting weight

 

Making yourself sick trying to consume the heaviness by yourself