Where I'm From

I am from barbeques and crawfish boils,

from popsicles and blue icing.

I’m from mirrored walls,

that showed everyone’s flaws.

I am from the rose bush,

with its prickly thorns.

I’m from tight curls and crooked smiles,

from Cuba and Ireland,

I am from someplace where cheetahs run wild.

I’m from screaming matches,

along with bruised faces and equally bruised egos,

 from “Get Out!” and “Why are you leaving?”

I am from “Amazing Grace”,

church at least twice a week,

 and never ending hymns.

I’m from words spoken by the hypocritical deacons,

 who gambled and fought and cursed like my parents did

I am from the “City of Angels” and “College Park”,

chicken enchiladas and seafood gumbo,

 from the money Great-Grandma blew at the “boat”,

and all of that heavy cigarette smoke.

I’m from every story that I’ve been told.

I am from . . .

Obituaries, invitations, yearbooks,

weathered letters, quilts, portraits, and old worn bibles.

When I found the evidence of “Where I’m from”,

I found myself.