I am from the oak tree I’ve never seen,
The one that stands thick and tall,
Who’s roots my toes know
And grip around the thick earth.
I am from the summer days of too-big t-shirts,
The toughness of a little girl lost,
The tendrils of hair seeping out from their bindings
Along the curve of a delicate, straining neck.
I come from the grass,
I can taste the rain, the drips the drops, splattering against the window,
I can feel the smell of summer wrapping itself around my skin
And the bead of sweat
Down the back
Of my leg.
I come from love.
From protest songs on the radio.
The sun roof.
I come from the hole in the wall from my fist
And the way my father still holds me when I cry,
Even though I’m too big,
Even though I gasp, wheeze
And the chasm of my mouth fills with thick spit that connects my
And I come from embraces,
The quiet distance, unspoken retribution,
And the seams that refill with warmth.
I come from tea, milk and honey.
From the sound of vinyl static.
And the color green.
I come from a room painted like fresh lettuce
And the fervent urge, rarely denied, after a shower to scurry into bed,
Towel thrown off like leaves from egregious branches tossing their loot to the gutters
And let the comforters graze my skin
As I make a cocoon
And bury myself beneath the billowing blankets.
I come from that barefooted child,
From Richard and Elizabeth, like they used to make us write,
That stagnant “About Me” pseudo-poetry,
From Baby Spice and Mortal Kombat,
Radiohead and waxing philosophic,
Vonnegut and prescription pills,
But most importantly,
Yes, perhaps the most importantly of all
(And this is serious, so listen:)
I come from the feeling
Of the wisdom,
Of the oak tree I’ve never seen.