Where I’m From
By FJ DeRobertis
I am from my father’s intricate bird carvings,
from blocks of wood piled high.
I am from the saw dust flying in the basement air.
(It smelled like wood baking for supper.)
I am from the trickling pond
the shark sized gold fish
whose mouths splashed the top of the water
whenever a shadow passed by.
I’m from seagulls and mermaid purses,
from wake-up early and beat high tide.
I’m from the fog filled morning with no sight
and the sound of waves from no where,
cousins and sisters chasing to catch treasures first.
I’m from the large foot prints I hop to,
and make my own inside.
I’m from “Elbows off the table,
and napkin on your lap.”
I’m from “You’re too young to come,
we promise to be back.
Be good to others.
Family first.
Don’t break your mother’s back.
I’m from Grandma playing wiffle-ball
and dentures sliding home first.
From Grandma’s thick wall paper paste
but delicious rice pudding.
I am from the ferocious bark at garbage men,
a lick on my face
the scraping and crying in the cold
the longing of an indoor embrace.
