I am from clothespins,
From Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch,
(black and glistening, it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
The Dutch Elm
Whose long gone limbs I remember
As if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,
From Imogene and Alafar.
I’m from the know-it-alls
And the pass-it-ons,
From perk up and pipe down.
I’m from He restoreth my soul
With a cottonball lamb
And ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
Fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
To the auger
The eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
Spilling old pictures,
A sift of lost faces
To drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments—
Snapped before I budded—
Leaf-fall from the family tree.