Where I’m From

I am from cotton bonnets, braids.

From a few bohemians living behind or ahead of their time.

I am from a song, sung over a tea cup.

From two miscarriages, 

And an abundance of ow-cupuncture—

(I mean really. I think in one appointment, she actually made my mother cry.)

I am from heavy, multicolored glass beads that smell like 

Venezia by Laura Baigiotti.

I am from “make it a good story” and “don’t be helpful, dear”

from “Oh, the humanity!” and “As you wish.”

I’m from the muddy hill behind East Bay Waldorf School

where I thought myself too dainty,

too law-abiding 

for mud sliding, 

And did it anyway.

I am from Duncan Parley and Karima Iona Yvonne, 

from Brown and Cammell, from New England épée fencing champions. 

I am from the wisteria and climbing cécile brünners that spill fearlessly 

off of every available trellis in Berkeley in the spring. 

I am from Peet’s Coffee and Cheeseboard Pizza, 

From live jazz in the afternoon. 

I’m from tea at Tara’s house and picnics in the park.

I am from the gloaming; the purple and orange skies.

From farmers’ market visits at the hour when electric lamps are switched on 

and hung from the tent structures,

And from sweet winter carrots and chocolate pecan chewies 

(eaten under my coat on the freezing walk home). 

I’m from Bernie’s hot mulled cider,

And watching the Sump Pump whoosh out into the street on rainy days. 

I am from a pile of pieces. 

Potentially, some time, whole.

A stained glass window,

Or a jumbled stack of two-by-fours.