From (Revised)
I am from the skeleton of coal mines
Soot and tobacco
And men who don’t say much
I am from venison stew
Knife handles carved from antlers
Late evenings spent under a single lamp
To get the waxy ridge of it just right
I am from the kindness of my mother
I am from her soft edges
(She pinched them and said they shouldn’t be
but I knew that they were ripples of love
and I could hide my aching there)
I am from the parts of her beauty
That were hedged in by fear
I am from her signet ring
Her navy pea coat
The broken laces of her winter boots
I am from soccer nets and mud pies
Salt-water taffy and bamboo spears
Chlorine and kick-boards
The summer of Kerri Strug
When we wore our own silken blue ribbons
And dreams of medals
I am from brooding whole truths
That left room for nothing else
From mustard Berber, burgundy chairs, and stale coffee
I am from the casting out of
“Idols and the devil and sex”
I am from shaking fists and broken bread
And tongues tangled in the language of the Spirit
I am from the persistent ring of my own questions
I am from the shame that burned its way
Through every quickened pulse of discovery
I am from the fear of being what they warned of —
Desire that was crooked and ripe with sickness —
I am from lying awake, 12 years old,
Begging for it not to belong to me
I am from the leaving behind
I am from Billie Holiday
And Carson McCullers
And Toni Morrison
And William Faulkner
I am from sandpaper callouses
After hours spent with my father’s Washburn
I am from borrowed, untuned, ivory keys
And songs I tested against shower tile
And concrete stairwells
So my lungs could feel bigger than they were
I am from black ink, fifth-floor stacks, and microforms
I am from the professors who taught me
That god is more than what White men
say you should know
I am from the words
That shook weight from my shoulders
I am from parking lot lunches
And mountain air
I am from the back stoop
Where I unfastened my secrets
I am from fire-bellied windstorms
And dusk tilting off of the ocean
I am from the balmy breath of summer
That held around me as dense as her own
I am from cobalt electricity on her skin
The fiery static of building weather
I am from the pink of her mouth
Wine-laced and warm with vice
I am from wanting to not want her like I did
I am from the taking in
The final rewrite of my response to Fresh Darling’s first prompt. Thanks to K.E. Kimball, Christopher Raley, and Patrick Faller for your feedback — it helped me immensely.
