I am from the spiraling pigskin
from Wilson and the Time Warner Company.
I am from the bonus room in the second story
(warm, comforting, my own little haven).
I am from the vibrant bird of paradise,
the scarlet rose bushes
whose thorns would put tears in my eyes
but whose blooming flowers
would brighten any mother’s day.
I’m from the pig roast and thick, dark hair
from Frances and Paciano.
I’m from the overeaters and
the compulsive
from never crying wolf
and keeping my elbows off the dinner table
the familiar “No!” and my old friend, “Knock it off!”

I’m from He who looks down on all of us
though I haven’t been through those holy doors
in quite some time.
I’m from the city of Shamu and two worlds so different
they seem like they could never merge,
crisp lumpia and al dente pasta.
From the life my great-grandfather grasped back,
sprinting through the pineapple fields
the result of a metal-mouthed rocker
and the charming school jock.
Stored away in a dusty closet,
peacefully sit these memories
captured by the lens of an old 35mm.
And for now they will rest
until the day I come upon them
with tears overcrowding my eyes,
for it is these things that make up who I am.