I am from flour,
from bedspreads and pillows.
I am from grit and oil,
laughter and turmoil.
I am from the air we breathe,
the oak tree,
whose long gone limbs,
I remember as if they were my own.

I am from Christmas mornings and mechanic jamborees,
from Courtney Lynn and Kimberly Marie.
I’m from anger and nervousness,
and from extended stories.

I’m from “tough it up,” and, “stick it out,”
and, “see you later alligator.”
I am from nothing.
I’m from hell and heaven,
peanut butter cookies and noodles of Ramen,
from washing motorcycle bodies with my father,
with hands by the end,
were black as the night,
and whose eyes twinkled brighter than light.
Pictures are my past, not my future,
In a box they lay hidden away.
For memories haunt me.
I am from.