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I come from the place of ice blue mountains that enclose me like crowned walls.

I dream of green forests that smell of possibility.


I am the child who found warmth under a gold lamp as I

huddled with musty books beneath a gray cloud blanket.


I come from a house filled with singing, shouting.

Laughter in one breath, tears in the next.


I come from a proud line of women

with bright eyes, large hearts

power and beauty grasped in each hand.


I come from a clan of mothers who fight for their children

hold on to them tightly, and never let go.


My world comes from music, rhythm

Beats that move feet into air.


I come from cinnamon rubbed with garlic on chicken,

of milk in a pot on the stove when I can’t sleep,

applesauce and lime soda when I’m sick on the couch.


I come from a land of soft words, cold hands, and the wish for a friend.

My safe place is the one I built. Made with

Barbies and model horses, plastic tigers and dinosaurs.


I come from a series of passport stamps,

riding in the back seat with my brother,

sharing a bed, tasting strange food,

trying to shape the foreign words on my tongue.


I come from early mornings spent with my mom

Dry paintbrush in hand

As I fancy I’m painting our Persian carpet.


I come from afternoons spent screaming

Wishing my parents would see I was ready to date.


I come from fierce love and overabundant piles of words.

From snow’s fresh excitement and summer’s fleeting glory

Twined in emerald grass and sapphire lakes.


I come from dozens of cousins who fill my family

With babies and noise and drama drama drama.


I come from a world as broken as it is beautiful.


I come from a light-streaked darkness where I must let tears pass through

I come from living without the answers I want.


I come from two parents, two siblings, more good times than bad.

I come from optimism that shoves against winter-black depression.


I come from my grandma’s crossword marathons,

my grandpa’s wild garage of inventions.


I come from spaghetti all over my face and orange popsicles under the cherry tree.


I am the child of all of these things.

I come from a hundred places. I come from my home.

I come from the life that came to me.


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This Post Has 4 Comments

  1. I am tempted to write a poem in response to yours…also gives me some more ideas btw 🙂

    1. I’d love to see that poem, April!

  2. We thought that this was beautiful! So many wonderful memories!

  3. We thought that this was beautiful!
    So many good memories!

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