I’m from East Coast waters
churned by the boat of four children in lifejackets
who watch grandpa’s withered hands work
rhythmically along the fishing pole
a master of his craft
cheerful and laughing like the summer sea below him.

I’m from butternut squash
cubed, blended, peppered
in a ceramic cup, it is as orange as the sunsets that wash
a little boy’s pastel drawings
once scribbled with a taffy-filled mouth from
behind a neck of honeysuckles
and cardboard “Lemonade: $0.25!” signs

I’m from the Mohegan Bluffs, just how they look on postcards
seized by yellow grass and wrinkles
its papery face crumbling into the salt-covered mass beneath
a spectator of Fourth of July’s fireworks and
hermit crabs without homes,
sun burnt tourists who cram the beaches with rainbow umbrellas
and loud music, when all I hear is
the silvery sound of a foghorn crooning in the night.

I’m from the murderous, black pot where lobsters’ souls
are mutated into buttered meat on a platter,
like mint chip ice cream,
two frosty scoops reduced to the pale green syrup
that drips down the chins of four beaming children,
their parents, desperate with napkins
and a gray-haired couple
reflecting on the scene in pride.