From 3/31 poetry workshop. We were asked to emulate a particular poem. As a “military brat” who moved every 4-5 years, this was the result:
Where I’m from, two blocks down the houses have multiple bathrooms & staircases and we have room for shoulders to not touch, but not much more.
Where I’m from, my neighbors do not look like me and Tad speaks spanish with his mom. Multiple languages fill the thick night air: the sounds wafting together to form a harmony no song can approximate.
Where I’m from, the fields are long, the wheat grass is high & brown, and Pringles are 50 cents. It’s safe to walk to the store with your friends or alone within the confines of a gated city.
Where I’m from, the fighter planes fly low & the rumble vibrates your middle ear… your chest shakes…and that is home: even as they may fly to someone else’s home with an objective of decimation.
Where I’m from, the clickity-clack of the horses hooves brings a knowing smile that a young Amish couple is courting or husband is returning home with the “produces.” The same street where semis fly thru & blaze their horn because the echo amuses them.
Where I’m from, Friday night is a guaranteed shouting match as the bills get juggled and some get paid. Love doesn’t sound this way.
Where I’m from, comfort smells like jasmine & Right Guard, elbows are made of Silly Puddy, and her smile can warm me thru even when the snow peaks over the window sill. “Hasta manaña”… “Not if I see you first,” she says.