IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
Where I Am From
A poem
It’s the accent.
Their curiosity piqued
they say —
where are you from?
And I say,
I am from
a mountain flat like a table
at which I could never eat,
draped in a cloth of clouds;
winds with Atlantic teeth and
ovens of sand and sun.
And they say,
oh,
so you’re from
whites upstairs and blacks downstairs
and I say
yes, from the huts of newspapered walls
read a million times, spiders in yellow socks
babies in bundles on backs, shopping on heads
beds on bricks and tongues clicking
like castanets.
And they say,
aah,
I knew it.
You’re from
Robben Island and Nelson Mandela;
Charlize Theron, and Oscar what’s his name…
…and the Lord's Prayer, Saying Grace
Miss Whitley’s powdered school-face
and ears twisted for being late,
I add.
Then they say,
my uncle went on a safari once.
You’re from lions, and giraffes at watering holes
ivory poaching, Zulus stomping
shaking their spears and
animal skins?
Somewhat, I reply.
I am from
double-bill at the Drive-In on Fridays
a Fistful of Dollars and Brides of Dracula;
the Glock under Mom’s bed
given away to Marty
to shoot the snakes at
the bottom of the garden; from
baboons panhandling along Sunday drives
yawning their vampire fangs, and
quick, roll up the windows!
I’m from beaches oil-slicked, feathered and tarred
watch out for the bluebottles; thundering surf and
paralyzing penguin-cold;
invisible sharks, ships
rusting away on rocks and
the Southern Cross
inching into an
ink-black
sea.
And they reply,
you’re from the legacy of apartheid,
the Soweto riots, and treating black people like shit.
I pause a while then say —
In the shadows of two towers cooling their split atoms,
there stood a house painted pink and fights over a swing.
There was eating Vicks when sick, and
washing hair with soap;
Miss Dove’s acne scars
more bones than fish
cauliflower nits
and
listening to
Mauritius
in
a
shell.
That’s where I’m from.
This poem is in response to a prompt by Debra G. Harman, MEd. and is inspired by George Ella Lyon’s poem Where I Am From.
