I am from my mother’s mother,
crashing between picket lines
and bars on kitchen windows.
I am from boxes left unpacked
in new homes
and dresser drawers in
one-night-stand motel rooms.

I am from the darkness
of a classroom black board
where some of our first questions were answered,
and shoeboxes under your bed
filled with unsent love letters.

I am from dust swept
hinges and doorknobs,
cracking joints and fallen out hair.
I am from smoke-filled cars
parked behind closed restaurants.

I am from stained wine glasses
where you let your imagination run wild
and blood-soaked grassy fields
where bullets hide behind still hearts
and wedged between brain crevices
of the nameless soldiers of reality.

I am from waiting room stains
and clenched fists,
evangelical smiles and sad songs.
I am from leaking faucets and
two A.M. phone calls between lovers.

I am from the path of no beginning,
the sound of silence,
the yesterday of tomorrow,
the moment of now,
the space of time
and the stillness of an empty mind.

From there I was,
to there I will be,
and right now I just am.

9/4/08