The Making of Me

I am from the elderly:

The young, embodied in old.

Oil paintings, nickels, toothpicks,

Soup-ified meals, straws, and distant looks.

               I am from memories.

 

I am from plum trees

From Indians, from hammocks.

From fences too tall to see over

Surrounding the plot of green grass

               Outlining Iokua and I’s past

 

I am from boxes, stacked high in the house

From tape stretched taut

I am from empty houses, from

Fill-them-up houses

               From rooms within rooms – and windows.

 

I am from flour hanging in the air

From heat circling the furnace, flames, fire.

I am from dogs underfoot,

from kittens on laps.

               I am from warmth and books and writing.

 

I am from wind and grass

Graceful trees, full and bare

From birds and worms,

I am from rain.

               From sun in the sky, dressed provocatively, darkly, in clouds.

 

I am from bark and from bite,

Boomer Hyjinx, Buck Magoo, Shelby Jackson.

–One sand-paper nose, and clacking claws on bamboo floors

–Two wet noses and wet tongues.

I am from twelve legs of energy,

               From licks and kisses. From love.

 

I am from family.

Four legs and two legs.

Blood and heart.

Secrets and memories.

Laughter and tears.

               I am from family.

 

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