Where I'm From
Modeled after the poetry of George ella lyon
brandie trent
I come from a foot peddle beneath a whirring sewing machine
and the dirt beneath Dad's automotive fingernails
the slopes of Ski Windham
and the weekend retreats of the Catskills
I was born from the pages of Gladys' daily journals
the duffle-bag of Ivan's Navy days
the straight-line scriptures of Howard's sermons
the escapes of Gertude's novels
I am the neon tattoo of the dandelion
the flaming bristles of the devil's paintbrush
a loose slab on a historic stone wall
I was nourished on
fried yellow squash blossoms
powdered milk
Quaker Instant oatmeal
birch beer
and candy circus peanuts
I am
Hello, Hollywood
Inside or out
and
Straighten up and fly right
I am from packages of dress patterns
from under real Christmas trees
from in front of a 13-inch television
My life is written in glue and glitter on red Christmas bulbs
when we celebrated on Thanksgiving
before my grandparents traveled south
with the geese
I am contained in John Denver record covers
tangled in a berry patch
blessed by traveling mercies
and I scream with the voice of a beagle’s bark
and the echo of a snow shovel on a long gravel driveway
and the urgency of the fire station's siren when there often are no volunteers
and the dirt beneath Dad's automotive fingernails
the slopes of Ski Windham
and the weekend retreats of the Catskills
I was born from the pages of Gladys' daily journals
the duffle-bag of Ivan's Navy days
the straight-line scriptures of Howard's sermons
the escapes of Gertude's novels
I am the neon tattoo of the dandelion
the flaming bristles of the devil's paintbrush
a loose slab on a historic stone wall
I was nourished on
fried yellow squash blossoms
powdered milk
Quaker Instant oatmeal
birch beer
and candy circus peanuts
I am
Hello, Hollywood
Inside or out
and
Straighten up and fly right
I am from packages of dress patterns
from under real Christmas trees
from in front of a 13-inch television
My life is written in glue and glitter on red Christmas bulbs
when we celebrated on Thanksgiving
before my grandparents traveled south
with the geese
I am contained in John Denver record covers
tangled in a berry patch
blessed by traveling mercies
and I scream with the voice of a beagle’s bark
and the echo of a snow shovel on a long gravel driveway
and the urgency of the fire station's siren when there often are no volunteers