Where I'm From

Where I’m From
(In the style of George Ella Lyons)

I am from glass bottles,
from Swatch Watches and an age without seatbelts.
I am from a bungalow with ruffled
curtains blowing in the kitchen window.
(A gaudy yellow, they ballooned in the breeze,
like the bottom of a swirling skirt.)
I am from maple trees and
the purple blooming lilacs of May,
whose gorgeous balm filled my bedroom
with a sleepy brew that hushed me as
the sun would sink into the earth.
I am from the peony bush outside my
parent’s bedroom window which bloomed
soft, serrated globes of hot pink,
like paper flowers on a bridal car,
and I‘d sit on the railroad tie,
seeking comfort in the petals.

I am from take-out food in grease-soaked boxes
on weekends and strands of copper hair,
from a father who always has a story to relate
and a mother who thinks that volume is
how you make your point.
I am from grandma Grace who was afraid
of rainbows and who ate milk and cookies
in the early morning darkness.
I am from Ernie, who I never knew, but I
see his eyes in my reflection, occasionally.
I am from Jack who told grand tales
and cared for roses, and from Kathleen
who barely spoke at all but was still heard
loud and clear.
I am also from Michael, a stranger by blood,
who loved me as his grandchild, just the same.
I am from summers on the Trent
and bags of rubbery curd cheese.
I’m from those who know better and
those who don’t do,
from eat up, drink up, shut up! and
if you can‘t do it right, don‘t do it at all!
I’m from confession in a dark booth,
the smell of finished candles and
ten Hail Marys, which I’d recite without thinking.

I’m from the city, the country and suburbia with
roots threaded through the peat of Eire,
from Sunday roast with gravy and strong tea.
I am from secrets, politics behind brightly
coloured doors, spilled blood in bog water
and potters praised for their china.
I am from forty greens and royal blue, from
high hopes and muddy lows.
I am from a love of mirrors, romantic missteps
and the strength to change a path.

I am from an old, rusting trunk with a lock
which keeps the love and broken bones
of a long dead war within.
There are voices, poetry and the
pleading of lovers on timeworn paper
creased by longing and the fear of death.
I am from superstition and worry,
The Old Stone Cross and
pan-fried fish on cold Fridays.

I am from my own treasure chest,
with a broken seal from a desperate boy
who tried to learn who I was without asking.
I am from the old dolls with peeling faces,
handwritten, unfinished stories and the beaten
baton from a majorette’s day of glory.
I am from dead, dry flowers of moments
I was meant to remember, yet have forgotten still.

I am from an entanglement of faintheartedness
and impassioned curiosity
about where it is that we are going,
and why.