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My Circle MAG
I come from a place where the couches have never matched,
Where the wallpaper is a pattern of finger prints smudged on white,
And it smells like the perfumes of childhood.
I am from the womb of a family room
Where anyone who enters is kin,
And glasses must clink like victory bells
In order for night to begin.
I come from a kitchen where food has no fat,
Where coffee falls like rain from the ceiling
And converts into cocoa when the season insists.
I am from a place where blankets line the floor like quilted grass
And between each stitched blade there is a favorite book,
A smile, a kiss on the forehead to be cherished.
The windows are dirty where I come from,
But no one dares to wipe an inch to reveal what waits outside.
I have seen the sun behind the glass,
I have compared the warmth and know that nothing could beat
The heat I have created within the crevices of fingers,
Between the pout of lips or touching hips.
I come from a place where a dog is the king of the jungle,
Where the ice cream truck drives in circles around the freezer.
The cabinets quarter an array of mismatched tableware,
And if you asked me if I could go anywhere, even everywhere,
I would ask you to please take me home.