I’m from a tobacco barn,
from a long line of March lilies
and cockle-burrs. I hail from
the oak and maple trees and
the wrong side of the law.
From that box filled with tapes
of Beethoven and Chopin,
from battlements of Legos, a wall of mud graffiti.
I’m from that flit of Zorro’s cape,
the tightrope of railroad ties,
Prince Edward Island,
And behind the back
of a northern wind
From at least two acres of chamomile,
half a shelf of Philips commentaries,
and a collection of teacups—
there beside the pink one
my brother gave me.
I came from the snap and crack
of a thunderstorm,
a rivulet of rose quartz
veining through the heart of a black hill,
and a safe-hold for
the treasures of the snow.